


Standard Deviation

by MissMaple41



Series: Standard Deviation Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Diapers, Dom!John, Don't Try This At Home, Exhibitionism, Golden shower, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Incontinence, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of past drug use, Objectification, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Punishment, Relationship Negotiation, Spanking, Teasing, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wetting, collaring, d/s dynamics, mentions of pain play, mentions of threesome, more tags (kinks) will be added as we go along, nappies, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaple41/pseuds/MissMaple41
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a Dominant."</p><p>"Well aware, thank you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.

All in all, it’s a normal evening at Baker Street. John’s sitting by the telly, eating a ready-made meal that he, as a doctor, ought to know to stay away from. Sherlock, meanwhile, is sat at the dinner table with a cooling cup of tea at his elbow and all of his attention focused on the screen of John’s laptop. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson is bustling around as per usual, dusting or perhaps cooking; it doesn’t much matter which. It’s a scene of utter innocent domesticity to anyone who might happen to look inside - anyone, that is, who doesn’t also happen to see what’s on the laptop screen. To anyone but Sherlock Holmes, the R18 material would certainly kill the mood.

It isn’t to get off that Sherlock’s watching porn, though. Rather, it’s got some scientific value, seeing how John is normally so careful to delete his browser history, and this time, he hasn’t. Sherlock’s aware of all of this because he always has a look, just in case, and this particular Thursday evening, his persistence finally paid off. He’d opened up the browser with no other goal in mind and there it was; a list of 12 links to pornographic film clips. It’s easy enough for Sherlock to deduce both from the time stamps and the break from routine that they’ve been left there purposefully so he’d find them, and so, he looks through them, one by one, carefully analysing what the message might be. If he factors in their recent history with the rather redundant after-care of the very final clip, it isn’t all that difficult to see. Regardless, always one to keep his facts straight, Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls out the mental file he needs, the one he keeps in John’s nightstand in John’s room in his mind palace. 

**Evidence list**

Item one: John hasn’t been on a date in exactly 3 months, four days, and twenty-two hours now. He’s had both offers and opportunities since and yet, here he’s been sitting instead, in companionable silence broken only by the telly and the occasional giggle or groan, depending on the nature of the show he’s watching. On its own, this could be nothing, but Sherlock still thinks that it fits into the mental folder, since it tells a rather different story once linked together with the other items on the list.

Item two, then; John’s last venture into romantic adventure was with a man. He was a polite bloke called Deke, a very plain-looking man who seemed, if possible, even more tame and domestic than John’s average girlfriend. Even Lestrade, who is normally nothing less than accepting, had seemed to disapprove of the man, and Sherlock thinks that speaks plenty about his character. The man wasn’t John’s type, could hardly be anyone’s type. So, in short; the five dates long relationship didn’t actually have anything to do with Deke. 

Item three; John does no longer use the arm chair. Normally - before - when Sherlock occupied most of the sofa, halfway lying down and halfway sitting up with a book in his lap, let’s say, and John wanted to watch the telly, John would go sit in his arm chair instead. A slightly more inconvenient angle, yes, but it saved him the forced intimacy of almost sitting on top of Sherlock’s feet. Over the past few weeks, though, John has more and more favoured the sofa, going so far as to drape his arm across the back of it even though it invaded Sherlock’s personal space. Well - invaded might be too strong a word, seeing how the gesture was welcome, but the point stands. John has been much more familiar with him. 

Item four; John agrees with him in arguments now. Before, if Sherlock got in a fight with Anderson over some deduction or other, John would stand silently by or try and break up the argument, obviously pulled in two directions by, in part, his loyalty to Sherlock, as well as the fact that he sympathized with the well-educated men who, despite being very good at their jobs, had to stand by and let a bastard of an amateur make fun of their hard work. Sherlock used to know exactly where the line went, exactly how hard he’d be able to argue or how much spite he’d be able to show before John stepped in and took over, but these days, the line has moved. The odds have shifted in Sherlock’s favour - and so, clearly, the loyalty to him has grown, because John isn’t any less of a well-educated, hard working man than before. 

Item five; 23 days ago, John had stopped denying that they were a couple. Of course, this could just be another fluke; perhaps John had simply gotten tired of telling people that he wasn’t gay, even when the film clips Sherlock has just finished looking at seem to suggest something different, or perhaps he’d changed more than his stance on homosexuality. Perhaps it was something more; something rather like an invitation. If that was possibly one, then this offering of porn is most certainly one - and it’s one Sherlock intends to take. Hence, he says his last item out loud, the one with the most power in it; the controversial one. A deep breath in, and then;

“You’re a Dominant.”

It’s true as well; Sherlock knows it is, because he’s observed it on John before. There’s the steady calm that allows him to both kill bad men in cold blood and buy the milk once he’s done. There’s the way he sometimes stops shouting in the middle of an argument to just look at Sherlock with something deadly, dangerous and entirely safe in his gaze all at once. There is also the rather more tangible proof of the marks that Sherlock observed on Hannah while she and John were dating. Together, they are things that could only point towards one thing, and it’s obvious that John knows that Sherlock knows, because he doesn’t even look away from the telly when he hears what’s on Sherlock’s mind. All he offers, instead, is “Well aware, thank you.” 

Obviously, that wasn’t enough to impress John, not even enough to warrant his attention. That annoys Sherlock on some level and the silence between them isn’t even awkward, doesn’t carry a hint that anything meaningful has passed between them - so obviously what did pass wasn’t important enough to John to register as meaningful. The way the man plays dumb is grating, and so Sherlock decides to go on, to try and outdo his last remark by skipping several of the boring steps in between where they are now, and where he’s sure John wants them to be at the end of the night. “I accept your conditions, obviously.”

That does earn him a pointed look, although Sherlock isn’t sure that the look on John’s face is really surprised. There’s something else there, something rather more like… Like he’s actually impressed. Not by the words as such, obviously; John was the one who asked first, after all, probably well aware that was in fact what he was doing. No, rather John seems to be impressed because of other reasons. Sherlock doesn’t have to deduce his way to them, either.

“All of it?” John asks, suspicious, as though he thinks perhaps Sherlock is testing him, somehow. What the test would be is entirely beyond Sherlock, but then again, so are a lot of the human niceties. It’s so rare that efficiency and politeness go hand in hand, and this seems to be another such occasion. As he nods, he feels lucky that John has never been overly polite with him. It makes for easier, more honest, communication.

“People don’t usually want all of those things, Sherlock,” John goes on, but all Sherlock does is shrug. Over John’s shoulder the telly’s still running, there are still aliens in London to be fought, but for once, Sherlock seems to take precedence over the dull show. He revels in it and so he plays another high card; anything to keep John’s attention on him and only him.

“I can imagine some might object to the piss play in particular, but you know me, John. I’ve never been squeamish.” 

John’s mouth opens at that, as though there’s something he wants to express, but in the end finds too complex for words. To his credit he quickly closes it, and even though he makes a thoughtful half-gesture with his head, Sherlock is sure that it never even crosses John’s mind to return to the telly. That safety allows Sherlock to give John the time he seems to need to think, and it’s ridiculously easy to see John repeat over in his head, ‘all of it’, as he takes in what that means. 

“Every single thing, then?” John asks, turning more fully to face Sherlock. “Even the… piss play. The nappies? The piss drinking? The flogging, the figging?” 

And Sherlock, in turn, nods. He’s being very patient here, but Sherlock’s patience only lasts for so long. Everything John’s saying he adores; the pain, the humiliation, the sense of being used and ravished and hurt at his Master’s mercy… It has arousal bloom in his gut just at the thought of it. He feels it absorb into his bloodstream and he smiles sweetly over at John. “Everything I’ve seen in these videos and a fair amount of other things as well, should you have additional proclivities.” Not that he thinks John does; if he’s admitting his watersports kink, he’s admitting everything there is to know. It pleases Sherlock immensely, how transparent his new-found Master is. Predictable and safe can so very often go hand in hand.

“When do you want to start?” John asks, and finally he’s being relevant. Sherlock’s smile grows for a moment before it fades away entirely and he sinks down on his knees. 

“Right now, if you need to go.” 

And John does, Sherlock knows that he does. The empty cup of tea on the table as well as his general familiarity with the man gives away that much, and, from the way John shifts on the sofa, the idea has him hard. It’s undoubtedly not the first time he imagines it, although perhaps it’s the first time he imagines it quite this actively. Sherlock shifts forward, and adds, “Sir.” John’s tongue comes out to wet his lips. 

“We shouldn’t start there,” he says, and, well, Sherlock supposes that he’s got a point. There should be handcuffs, surely, and build-up, and Sherlock should be naked, but in the end, this is what his own fantasies have boiled down to; to John Watson, grabbing him out of an every-day activity to use him, then to leave him there, filthy and wanting. A fresh wave of arousal goes through him, making him hard. 

“There’s plenty of time to do things in the right order later,” he says, almost begs, and so finally John jerks out the tiniest little nod. Sherlock doesn’t think that this is how he wants to do it, not really. John enjoys it when things take their time, enjoys building slowly from the ground up, enjoys stability, comfort and trust - none of the things which Sherlock wants right now, and all of the things that he knows he needs later on. He mimics John’s motion from before, licking his lower lip, and says sweetly, “please.” 

John clears his throat as he steps right up to Sherlock, erection just inches from his face, and Sherlock gets the feeling that he’s won this argument. He’s fully prepared for John to get himself out, to put his cock in Sherlock’s mouth, to fuck it until he comes and then piss in it to finish things off, but he doesn’t. Instead, there’s a steady hand underneath Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head back so that they’re looking each other in the eye. 

“I said,” John repeats calmly, “we’re not starting there.” The words feel a little bit like a fist to Sherlock’s guts, but oh, how glad he is for them. John knows, then, knows what he needs and how to give it to him. Another sort of warmth blooms in his stomach as John crouches down in front of him and gives his pout a soft, gentle kiss. That’s all he gets before John pulls back and adds, “If you’re so eager to be a good boy for me, you can crawl up into my en suite and fetch me the nappy bag from the cupboard under the sink.” 

For the longest moment, Sherlock can’t tell whether he’s disappointed or not at this turn of events. The scale tips before long, though, and Sherlock nods. Only then does John let go of his head, and Sherlock sits where he is and watches John go down the hallway, presumably to use the toilet. Sherlock has rarely felt so owned in so little time before, and not so safe, either.

The trip upstairs on his hands and knees in the same expensive shirts and trousers he always wears shouldn’t be comfortable, but it is. John hadn’t fallen for his manipulations before and the simple knowledge fills him right up with satisfaction all on its own; somehow, it’s even better that way. Being owned and had by John is so much better than being used by him. Eager to be good, just as John had said, Sherlock simply straps the nappy bag across his chest and turns to crawl back downstairs again without checking on the contents; he’s sure that John will show him before long anyhow. 

Back downstairs, he’s proven right. John’s back on the sofa but he’s shut the telly off, which is good, too. Sherlock wouldn’t want his Dom to divide any attention away from him, not when they’re at such a crucial moment in the forming of their relationship. Later, Sherlock is sure he’ll revel in the feeling of being ignored, of perhaps acting as John’s side table while the man watches some boring movie. Now, he’s just glad to have all eyes on him. 

“Thank you,” John says politely, reaching out for the bag which Sherlock gives him. Uncertain of his place, he stays sat on the floor for the time being. John opens the bag and pulls out a portable changing mat, which he hands to Sherlock. “I want that on the floor. You do realise what you’re agreeing to here, don’t you?”

Sherlock frowns as he places the mat on the floor. Are they really going to have this talk, here and now, with Sherlock already submitting himself so nicely? He’d have thought of John as more of a type to demand it be done on equal ground, no matter Sherlock’s opinion. Then again, it’s always been Sherlock’s opinion that being on his knees doesn’t make inferior. Once the mat has been laid out, Sherlock nods. “Yes. Of course. You showed me, remember?”

“I showed you the what, not the how,” John reminds him, as though that actually held any truth. John had betrayed the how often enough, when he spoke about women and what he’d like to do with them, when he spoke about exes and when he looked at Sherlock as though Sherlock was the thing upon which the whole world relied to exist. It warms him to his core, just thinking about it. 

“Oh, that’s not quite true, is it,” Sherlock says, sitting down on the changing mat for a lack of a softer surface. John inclines his head in something that can only be interpreted as ‘go on’. Sherlock does. “You want a relationship,” he deduces easily. “So you’re not only looking to do scenes with me, nor are you interested in anything casual, given the nature of those videos just now. You want us to be involved perhaps not twenty-four seven but, in the end, something rather close to that. The only relevant details you’ve yet to fill me in on are how long intervals at a time you’ll be comfortable playing with now, and at which end you’d like us to start. From all this,” he made a gesture at the nappy bag, “I’m guessing you’ll want me wearing, presumably overnight, given your tastes.”

If John is surprised by that, he has the good sense not to show it. Sherlock’s impressed, and John clears his throat with a little nod. “Well,” he says, giving Sherlock a polite little smile, “yes. I’d rather we add more tasks of submissiveness over time than more time as a submissive, though. For instance, I’d like you to wear nappies all night, every night, from now on.”

An unexpected turn of events, finally. Nothing feels quite as good to Sherlock Holmes as being wrong, and he offers his Dom a big smile. “Yes,” he breaths. John nods.

”In addition, I'd like you to wet your nappy when you wake up to pee.” When; not if. That, if anything, is testament to how well John really knows Sherlock. Since he habitually ignores his body's needs, it isn't unlike Sherlock to either stay up all night working, drinking coffee to fuel his work and as such using the restroom rather a lot, or to crash in the evening without even thinking to use the loo first. That isn't all the statement tells Sherlock, though. He also realises that, if his body grew used to pissing right where he happens to be when he's asleep, it wouldn't be long before he, in theory, became nocturnally incontinent – just like a baby. His throat goes dry and his cock throbs as he nods once more. ”Yes.” It's a little breathless, this time. John smirks.

”Strip down, then, so I can change you.”

Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice. He's never been self-conscious of his body and he isn't now either, so he undresses himself quickly and efficiently until he's stood in front of John absolutely nude. He's mentally aroused but not hard, not yet; his body is always slow to react. His cock feels heavy, though, and if he's left exposed like this, with John's eyes roaming up and down his body, it's only going to be a question of time. John doesn't allow him that time, though. Instead, he shifts forward on the sofa, so that he can kiss Sherlock’s hip. “You’re lovely,” he tells him, smiling at Sherlock - and Sherlock, in turn, pulls a hand through John’s hair. They stay like that for just a moment, close in a reassuring way, before John breaks off. He reaches into the nappy bag to bring out a nappy and some baby powder.

”On your back,” he instructs, and Sherlock lies down. It's swift work, putting it on; Sherlock does as he's asked when he's asked it, lifting his bottom and raising his knees and every other thing he can think of that John might need. It isn't surprising that they work well enough together to make it an easy, successful thing, that. What is surprising is how mellow it makes Sherlock feel the instant the nappy's locked around his middle. His cock and balls are cradled by the fabric, and while tight underwear is nothing new to him, this thickness feels... Comforting. Calming. He breathes out, all at once, with a soft ”oh.” John looks more than pleased with him.

”Gorgeous, baby,” he murmurs, reaching up to tickle at Sherlock's belly the way one might a child's. Instead of protesting, Sherlock only squirms as expected. John's smile grows and Sherlock finally manages to pull himself out of it with a rather serious ”I do believe you wanted to discuss the terms of this.” John nods. 

Five minutes later, they’re both sat on the sofa with fresh tea cups in their hands. Sherlock’s still wearing the nappy, of course, and he’s still amazed how such a simple prop holds so much power to make him feel. He hasn’t felt so safe since the first time John allowed him to, very platonically, crawl up in bed and sleep next to him after a particularly disturbing case. This is even better, though, because it’s a safety Sherlock can carry with him. If anything possibly could, it makes him trust and respect John more, that he thought to suggest this. 

“You realise you don’t have to do anything I say if you don’t want to,” John begins, provoking a snort from Sherlock. He hasn’t done anything he doesn’t want to do in all his life, and he isn’t about to start now. He’s just about to tell John as much when he’s stopped by the palm of a hand, held up calmly. Right. Perhaps the expression on his face said it all for him. John goes on. 

“That being said,” and there’s a pause there, to let Sherlock know what’s coming next is serious, “if you do agree to something only to later try and back out, or disobey, without using your safe word - I am going to punish you.” 

The words travel down Sherlock’s spine and settle as a pleasant tingling sensation in his nappy. He can picture it so clearly, all the things John could make him do - himself, strapped securely to the bed as John belts him with the care and deliberation only a doctor could manage. Himself, tied up into a little ball, with John coming and pissing on his face and in his mouth, repeatedly. A woman laid out and his face pushed deep down into her folds, forced to please her by John’s cruel hands. He’s getting hard already when he realises the fault in this and, before John can go on, he interrupts him. 

“I’ll want to be bad all the time,” he confesses. He’d think John would protest, or chastise him, but he does no such thing. Instead, he gives Sherlock a perfectly calm smile. 

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” 

There’s no stopping it at that. It’s an odd sensation, being hard in a nappy, cock striving to rise and swell but quite unable to do so. John has certainly padded him up nice and tight, which is probably good. They wouldn’t want any leaks, after all. The mere thought has Sherlock drinking more of his tea. 

“Right. So.” As always, it takes John a moment to find his footing again, but he does. He’s steady and reliable, John. “What’s your safe word?”

It’s a predictable question with a predictable answer. Sherlock all but sighs out, “beehive,” only for John to repeat it back at him, slowly, calmly.

“Beehive. Good. If you use your safeword, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and check in with you. If you want to stop then, we’ll stop. If you only need to say shift positions, we’ll do that. Good?”

Of course it’s good. Sherlock nods once more, even as he thinks that they could’ve skipped that bit out entirely. So predictable. Then again, it’s amazing how predictable can seem like a good thing when it comes to John. Perhaps that is because it’s all mixed up with things like what comes next. “So you’ve agreed to wear the nappies for me. What can I do for you, initially?” 

It’s hard to choose. All of those ideas from before come rushing back, mingled in with new ones, better ones, more daring ones, but he’s not sure a daring one will be allowed. He drinks down the rest of his tea in four long swallows to buy himself time, so that he can settle for something that feels - to him - just right in the moment. 

“I want to suck you off,” he says, putting the cup back on the table. “Often. Whenever you need a wank.” He doesn’t add wherever, not yet. They can add that on later, when they’re both comfortable with their roles. For now, doing it in the privacy of their own home is rather plenty enough. John seems to feel the same way, at least going by the smile on his face. He nods slowly, and his tongue shoots out to lick his lower lip the way it sometimes does when he gets stuck in thought. Sherlock’s heart beats a tiny bit faster as he shifts closer, but before he can even ask John if perhaps now might be the first of many pleasant sessions, he’s interrupted. 

“Yes,” John says, “certainly. Tomorrow, perhaps?” 

Tomorrow, Sherlock thinks begrudgingly, even as he nods. He shifts on the sofa, restless and eager to do something, anything, to please his new Master. Having found what he has found and being denied it already is frustrating, to say the least, but John only gives him a smile and another gentle kiss. Sherlock, however, won’t let it be just that. When John makes to pull away, Sherlock stops him with a hand on the back of his neck, slipping his tongue in between John’s willing lips. They snog for a good long while there, on the sofa, John fully dressed and Sherlock in nappies, before it seems as though John’s finally gotten his fill. 

They both pull back, this time, and they’re both smiling like maniacs. “Well, that was good,” John concludes, and Sherlock hums out his agreement. It really was rather good. He’s about to say as much when John goes on, instead, “Why don’t you go brush your teeth? I’ll meet you upstairs, in my bed.” 

Well, Sherlock thinks as he agrees. At least that’s something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. Chapter length can vary.

Falling asleep in the nappy wasn’t difficult, nor falling asleep next to John. Both those things comforts him more than he’d thought possible, and he can’t decide whether that’s spectacular or if it just shows what limited fantasy he really has. Either way, he sleeps well for the first portion of the night, feet brushing John’s but otherwise simply lying beside him, and sharing a comforter with him. 

It’s when he wakes up, bladder achingly full, that the issues really begin. In theory, it’s quite simple. Just… let go. His muscles, however, don’t agree. Relax, he tells himself, relax and be done with it. It shouldn’t be this difficult to do something so natural, especially not when he actually needs to go...The efforts have him fully awake in no time, and still not a drop to show for it. His subconscious is clearly not glad about pissing the bed, and Sherlock has to admit that even his conscious mind agrees to a certain extent. What if the nappy leaks? Sherlock knows that John has plastic sheets under the regular ones, though, so he tries his best not to worry. After all, he’s never been the squeamish type. 

It takes him all of two minutes to realise that isn’t going to do it. After some brief experimentation, he concludes that neither is pushing down as hard as he can. Not a drop leaks out of him, no matter how hard he presses, no matter how badly he has to go… So, in the end, he decides to swallow his pride and ask advice. He grabs John by the elbow and gently shakes him awake, not taking his eyes off the ceiling the entire time. Realising that he’s going to have to explain his predicament makes him blush, and it also makes him aroused. It’s going to be endless, he thinks, his arousal about his new situation. God, how he loves it - and god how he loves John. 

John, on the other hand, only rolls over with an expectant little “Hm?”. Sherlock clears his throat, nervous from the very start. 

“I’ve got to urinate,” he says, feeling the shame and the arousal intensify with each word. He can’t decide if he dreads or looks forward to the day that John finds out being shamed, or feeling ashamed, turns Sherlock on. Either way, he goes on; “and it seems as though I can’t.” 

It isn’t until then, that he’s finished stating his case, that Sherlock dares turn to look over at John - John, who mainly looks sleepy and a little bit concerned. It’s comforting, and Sherlock relaxes back into the bed at the same time that John reaches out to take his hand. Oh, that’s better. He still needs to go very badly and he still doesn’t quite dare, but the idea that John’s looking out for him in this matter soothes him none the less. 

“That’s fine,” John assures him, rolling up onto his side to face Sherlock more head on. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

It’s an unbelievable stupid question, and that for many reasons. Sherlock adores the way the nappy feels on him, adores the embarrassing notion of actually making use of it, and adores even more how happy it’s going to make John once he manages to actually do it. Surely it can’t be that difficult. Surely. “Of course I do,” he snaps, and John squeezes his hand just a little tighter. 

“There’s my good boy,” he says, and Sherlock, despite himself, relaxes further. It’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for, no matter how embarrassing it might be for him to admit it. “Just relax, and let it go.” 

This time, it goes better. With John’s steady presence by his side, Sherlock worries less and manages, after what’s probably five minutes of deep breathing, to do what he’d set out for. A little urine leaks out of him and, startled at the feeling, he tenses up again with a gasp. If he wasn’t so excited, he might’ve damned himself for not keeping up when he’d finally managed to push through the boundary, but not now. His heart is beating much faster than before and the blush is probably going from red to vermillion as John’s free hand, John’s steady hand, finds his nappy. 

“That’s good,” he coos, and Sherlock, excited and impossibly aroused all at once, has no idea how he’s supposed to finish off. It doesn’t seem like he has much choice, though, and feels glad that he isn’t fully erect. Once he’s relaxed back down, his body, desperate as it were, takes that as a sign to go ahead again. This time, Sherlock wets the nappy more before he tenses up, worried that it might after all not hold all that it’s supposed to. 

“What if I leak?” he asks nervously. John only pats the wet nappy between his legs. It’s reassuring in a way Sherlock hadn’t expected such a thing to be. 

“We’ll wash the sheets,” he says, smiling down at Sherlock. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. You just have to piss yourself and make Daddy happy.” 

The look on John’s face as he says it is what finally does it for Sherlock, who almost desperately does exactly what he’s told to, pissing the nappy with his eyes closed in shame. The noise of the pee hitting the fabric is so loud that even John must be able to hear it. In the silence that comes afterwards, Sherlock can hear his own pulse in his ears and he isn’t sure if he’d rather cry or come, but then John pats the wet nappy again and the obscene sounds it makes is enough for him to decide that, above anything, he wants to make John come, and that really rather badly. As he reaches out for the man, though, his hand is slapped away. 

“Not now,” John murmurs, cuddling up to Sherlock, much closer than before, and putting a steady arm around his waist. “We’re going back to sleep, now.” He kisses the back of Sherlock’s neck before he settles down, and oh, it’s both cruel and perfect at once that John expects Sherlock to simply go back to sleep, as though nothing earth-shattering just took place at all. If it weren’t for the nappy, he might well have punished John back by having a wank right there, with the prick trying to sleep behind his back. He doesn’t, though, and after a while, he manages to calm down. Not long after John starts snoring softly into his hair, Sherlock finally falls back asleep, too. 

Even though John’s alarm goes off way too early, it’s the most Sherlock has slept in one night in close to a week. The wetting had placated him, as had John’s presence, and while he’s normally always the first out of bed, the one the most eager to get going, that isn’t the case this time around. Rather, he rolls over and turns the alarm off before John’s even gotten the chance to open his eyes. Sherlock holds his breath as he waits it out, the few seconds that he knows are going to determine whether John’s body decides that the sound - familiar by now, certainly - merits him investigating it. Unfortunately, it seems as though it does. 

He frowns as he stirs, and Sherlock can all but see as the cogs work in his head, spinning round and round until they arrive at a conclusion that, while arguably unavoidable, is still something Sherlock would rather not have to deal with. 

“You do realise that shutting off the alarm doesn’t mean I can stay home from work, right?” John asks even as he sits up, groggily, to have a look at the time for himself. The wetting must’ve disturbed John’s sleeping patterns more than Sherlock had originally thought, and while his initial plan had involved a middle-of-the-night blow job as well, he vows to himself to do it on his own the next time instead. Surely his mind can produce the right mood, now that he knows what it is he’s looking for. 

Unfortunately, a peaceful wetting isn’t the only thing he wants. He also wants rather badly for John to not leave, and so, he rolls over so that he can lay an arm over John’s hips. “Don’t go.” 

John, however, only pauses for long enough to give Sherlock a considering glance as he stretches his arms up over his head, one at a time, slowly.

“Feel free to stay in here as long as you like,” he tells him, “try to eat something today and I’ll see you tonight. We can talk this over then.” 

It’s the opposite of what Sherlock would like to hear just then. He might be too eager to want to feel John, all of John, so soon after their very first kiss, but he can’t quite find it in himself to care. He loves John with all his being, has done for so long now, and it’s infuriating to not get to show him that. All he wants is for John to get back into bed with him and snog him silly, perhaps even go further… And if he can’t have that now, then that’s what he wants tonight. Not more conversation. 

“Must we?” he asks, rolling over a little so that John will be able to see just how bored the notion makes him. The look, apparently, has no effect, seeing how John only takes care to not hurt Sherlock’s head as he slips out of bed. 

“We must. That doesn’t mean we can’t have a spot of fun, too.” He gives Sherlock a smile, then clears his throat and disappears into the bathroom. The door closes behind him, so Sherlock rolls over on his back again. There’s no point in wasting more time and mental effort on something that’s apparently not going to happen anyway. It’d simply be wasteful, and Sherlock is currently running an experiment on how quickly the most common mold fungi work their way through various kinds of body tissue. It’s a rather extensive experiment, and Sherlock quickly finds himself lost in thought on how to properly ensure valid results. He doesn’t even hear the door close as John leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. Chapter length can vary.

His mold experiment isn’t the only thing to keep Sherlock occupied during the next couple of days. He’s fantasized about John before, of course, although perhaps not quite as frequently or extensively as just then. He’s sure that, once their relationship is less new, he’ll once more be able to control himself. For now, it isn’t quite so easy. The pornographic film clips that John had shown him the other night, while not in themselves all that enticing, have stuck on his mind with more familiar faces to stand in for the actors. There is so much he wants, and so little he’s able to get. 

There is at least something he’s able to get - in John’s bed. So he does. When late afternoon approaches and John with it, Sherlock’s lying among the pillows and comforters, some of which have been brought up from his own bed. Sherlock’s bed is bigger, but John’s is better yet, for a number of reasons - mostly, though, just because it’s John’s. The man’s scent on everything is equally calming and arousing, and even though Sherlock has already lain in this precise spot and come once today, he feels a distant desire to do so again. 

He’s sure that he could, if he really wanted to. They haven’t discussed Sherlock’s masturbation habits and they most certainly have not forbidden him from coming, besides which, John has repeatedly invited him to stay in bed for as long as he likes. 

He usually doesn’t stay long, of course. He’ll get out of bed quickly, to dispose of the nappy, shower, shave and change. He returns only after, to revel in the memories and in the fantasies of things yet to come. It always feels the tiniest bit naughty, just enough to urge him on, when he comes all over John’s sheets without express permission. Even as he lays there now, he revels in the remembered feeling of it, in the remembered feeling of John pressed up against him, still by his side even as he pissed himself...

Sherlock’s only just cupped himself through his jeans, only just begun to tease, when he hears the door open downstairs. John… As good as the imagination is, the real man is better, even if he just so happens to be one for taking things slow. 

Sherlock comes downstairs to find John making himself a cuppa. He has the same look of satisfied exhaustion on his face that he always does after a good shift in the A&E as though he’s saved several lives in just a few hours. Perhaps he has; Sherlock can never be sure. Right now, he doesn’t particularly care, either. What matters is that John is home, and well, and looking at him with a smile on his face and in his eyes. 

“There you are,” he says, turning around to face Sherlock more fully. “I thought you’d gone out.”

‘Out’, because that’s where the mold experiment is, officially. In truth, it resides in 221c, which seemed the perfect location for it. 

“I had,” Sherlock agrees, “although I’m back now. You had a good day at work, I see.” 

He hesitates. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared to linger here by John’s side; normally, he would’ve gone on to fetch that book he’d wanted, or to settle on the sofa for a nap now that there’s someone around to keep him safe, or to do whatever else it might be he wanted most in the world just then. This time, though, it just so happens that what he wants most in the world might or might not be right there in the kitchen, depending on what mood John is in. Talk or action? 

Sherlock has just taken a breath in to go ahead and tell John that if he wants to discuss something relevant to their relationship today, now is the time, when John puts the kettle back on the counter and tells Sherlock, uncaring that he interrupted him; “Will you be a good boy and crawl into the bathroom for me? There’s something I’ve wanted to do all day.” 

Sherlock can feel the first faint sparkles of arousal in his gut and submission sliding down his spine at that. Oh, maybe this is it, then. Maybe John’s satisfied that they’ve started in the right place and that they’re moving in the right direction, satisfied enough to be giving Sherlock a taste of what comes later. Maybe cuddling on the sofa last night was all John needed to be certain. So Sherlock nods, but when he starts off, a disapproving click of John’s tongue stops him in his tracks. 

“What?” he snaps, admittedly less than patient to finally get to do this. 

"I said, crawl."

Sherlock hesitates for a moment as he reviews. John had, indeed, said crawl, and Sherlock, in his eagerness to please John in other ways, had somehow overlooked it. Normally, he would’ve snapped something back at John, would’ve told him that he wasn’t going to crawl in these trousers, but not like this. Not now. He doesn’t want to deny his master anything, now. Instead, after a charged moment has passed between them, he drops down on all fours and does as he’s been told, crawling out into their little bathroom. It’s a comfort all on its own, knowing that he’s doing the right thing simply because John has ordered him to do it. As he sits down next to the toilet, he fully embraces the mindset he wants, hoping his position will do for John’s purposes.

The man himself steps in the door just a moment later and Sherlock watches him attentively. John still hasn’t told him what he wants here, and that isn’t like John, but on the other hand, it leaves the situation open for interpretation, and that excites Sherlock just as always. He knows John well enough by now to feel entirely safe with him, so he can allow himself to let go of control entirely to the man. They go back years, and John has killed men for him, has turned down women for him, has gotten a job to stay with him. John, in short, would do anything for Sherlock. Knowing this, Sherlock just waits, hungry eyes on John’s hands as they reach down to open first his belt, a leather belt that makes Sherlock hungry for a whole other reason, and then unzip his jeans. 

Only, when Sherlock thinks that John will go for him, he doesn’t. Rather, he goes for the toilet. He doesn’t so much as spare Sherlock a glance as he pulls down his jeans and boxers, just enough to have them out of the way, and pisses noisily into the porcelain bowl. Something simultaneously cold and warm settles in Sherlock’s stomach as John, still relieving himself, groans with pleasure. Never in his life has Sherlock been so jealous, and of a toilet, of all things. It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but then again, so is John. He can’t possibly have brought Sherlock in here just to watch, he can’t… Only, oh, how hard it makes Sherlock to think that he did.

Sherlock’s erection grows as John barely pays him any mind throughout. Instead, he shakes off, clears his throat and flushes. It’s only when the water starts flowing that he turns his whole body towards Sherlock. There’s a soft smile on his lips. 

“Lick me clean, boy.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to John’s face, uncertain that he heard him right. Is this the right place to start, then? Is this what John wants, to make sure that Sherlock has what it takes? There’s nothing on John’s face but calm and patience, though, so Sherlock nods. He wants this too, after all, and if John wants to see him enjoy this, then oh, he’s going to show him. 

He takes his eyes from John’s face to look down at his cock instead. He’s starting to get hard too, and there’s still a fat drop of piss lingering at the slit. Without being entirely aware that he’s doing it, Sherlock licks his lips and lets his mouth hang open just so. Fuck, how he wants this. Fuck, how he wants John. Apparently John sees an opportunity here because he takes it, leaning forward. He pushes his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, and it’s all he’s ever dreamed. 

John’s careful at first, barely letting Sherlock have the head. It’s still enough that he can lick the taste of salt from it, very satisfied with the feeling of servitude the action brings. It barely tastes like piss at all, must be purposefully diluted for his sake. The idea that John really had planned for this all day leaves him with an urge to please John more than he can quite explain. It’s odd for him to want this, so quickly… But then again, they’ve known each other for ages. They’ve known each other for years. 

Sherlock moves forward, slowly, taking inch by inch of John’s cock deeper into his mouth. He feels it thickening against his tongue and hollows his cheeks out, sucking smoothly to try and make John weak in the knees. He’s still standing entirely unsupported; surely there’s only so much he can take before he’s going to stumble and give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that he’s done well. He’s just about to pull back again, just a bit, just enough to massage the head with his tongue, when John grabs the back of his head, hard. The grip in his hair makes him moan, and he looks up at John, pleading with his eyes, pleading for more… when John suddenly slides the whole way out.

Sherlock is left slightly confused, with the taste and scent of John’s cock inside him to hang on to, while John puts it back in his trousers. Sherlock stares as indignation rises inside him, and along with it, that helpless embarrassment he so revels in, the degradation that always goes right to his cock. He really was just there to lick John clean. He’s just been used for toilet paper. While he tries to wrap his mind around the idea and around how it makes him feel, somewhere just above him, John washes his hands. As though Sherlock was filthy.

“Enjoy that?” John asks, almost in passing, as he wipes his hands on a towel. His voice isn’t quite as commanding as it was before, but it’s clear from his body language that they aren’t being casual just yet. That they’re still Dom and sub, as it were, so Sherlock nods.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Show me.” 

John leans against the tub as he says it, sits down on the edge of it as he watches Sherlock with expectant eyes. Sherlock, who hesitates. What does John want for him to do? Give two thumbs up, write a review on the experience? His cock throbs in his trousers and that’s what finally clues him in. Ah. Show me.

So Sherlock does. He makes eye contact with John as he undresses, eager hands working over his jeans to get his cock out. They don’t touch each other, but merely seeing the calm on John’s face is enough to reassure Sherlock that, even though he might end up in a situation where he feels exposed, he’s safe with John. When his cock’s out in the open, John licks his lower lip, and the simple gesture feels like a caress. Sherlock moans.

“Go on, then,” John says, still smiling, letting his eyes fall from Sherlock’s face to rest between his legs. “Touch yourself.” 

This, Sherlock thinks as he starts stroking himself, isn’t the right place to begin. It’s not even close. For normal people, the correct place to begin would be in bed, naked, both of them naked, and together, and it would be John’s hand on him and Sherlock’s eyes that full of pleasure. They aren’t normal, though, and thank fuck for that. Thank _John_ for that, above all. It’s all John on Sherlock’s mind as he starts to pick up pace. Simply the way John looks at him right then, as though he could eat him up, is enough to make him moan. Factoring in what John has just done to him, how the scent of pubic hair and the taste of unwashed cock still linger with him, he never had a chance at all. Pleasure washes over him in waves, one after the other and each one more intense, until he can feels his balls draw up close and the wave that never seems to end hits him.

John doesn’t tell him to come before he does, and Sherlock hadn’t expected him to, either. That’s all new territory for them, and as much as Sherlock knows that John knows that he loves discipline, maybe it’s better this way. Better to be able to enjoy himself thoroughly without a care in the world, only even vaguely aware of John’s eyes burning into him. While he’s not surprised that John let him ride out his pleasure in silence, he is surprised when he opens his eyes and John’s still sitting on the tub, still looking at him, and still smiling. Surely, Sherlock thinks, this must be it. Surely this must be the time that John wants him for himself.. 

If he hadn’t been made to feel so submissive and so meek by his orgasm, perhaps he would’ve tried to even without being asked. It isn’t unlikely that, once he realises how good Sherlock feels, John will fold and let him have at it. Sherlock knows he’s good, after all, but this isn’t more than a half-formed thought, hazy in his mind, when John speaks up once more.

“You’ve made quite the mess,” he observes, and so does Sherlock as his eyes fall on the floor. There’s a puddle of come on it, all his, all wasted. He knows what’s going to come next, thinks it even as John says, “I’d ask you to lick it up for me if we weren’t in the bathroom. I think a towel will do, don’t you?”

He can’t quite decide if he’s disappointed or not about that, but then John has finally stood and sauntered over. He takes a moment to pet Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock’s eyes closes. It’s enjoyable, being petted. Very enjoyable indeed. “Why don’t we have a bath together?” John asks, just John now, and not Sherlock’s Dom any more at all. “Could be nice.” 

Could be very nice indeed, so Sherlock only nods. He’s greedy when it comes to things he enjoys, and John’s touches, he enjoys very much. Taking a bath together would be a rare treat indeed, since he thinks they’ll only barely fit in the tub together. They’ll have to sit close, and John will probably want to wash his hair for him, and it’ll be a wonderful way to end the day. 

“Great,” John says, making a little gesture with his head. “Well, then. Why don’t you run it while I fetch the towels?” 

The towels, and the nappy bag, Sherlock thinks. It might be a bit too early for that yet, but he’s rather come to enjoy the way it feels to be padded. To simply lounge around in his nappy before it’s time to go to bed and, eventually, make use of it. He’s become so good at it now, he doesn’t have to wake John up any more. It fills him with a certain sense of pride, that. 

“Of course,” he says, allowing that pride to inflate him back into something closer to his usual self. “Don’t take too long. I don’t want to have to start without you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky (and in this chapter, a little angsty). WIP. Chapter length can vary.

A few days after John and Sherlock took their first bath together, Sherlock gets a new case. It’s an interesting one, with a mother dead and her child missing. The father is, understandably, beside himself, but Sherlock can’t be entirely sure that he isn’t the guilty party himself. John joins him in the pursuit of the father’s alibi for the first afternoon, then retires home for sleep and to prepare for work the following day. 

If Sherlock had it his way, John wouldn’t leave him. John would stay by his side and drink up his every word, the way he always does when they’re on a case and John hasn’t got anything better on. At least he isn’t leaving for a date this time, and that’s something. Being without John is troublesome, and yet Sherlock tries to not let it be a distraction. Tries to let John go, in mind as well as in body. He succeeds, or so he thinks at the time, and makes great progress in tracking down all of the separate men that Mr. Hanks has assured the police he was playing poker with. They all have identical stories, which is interesting, but proves only that the four men are in on this together, whether this be the truth or the crime.

Satisfied that he has all the evidence he needs at his disposal after having visited the crime scene, and examined the body, and spoken with the suspects, he retires home in the small hours of the morning. It’s late and John will be up early and besides, Sherlock doesn’t wish to be tempted into sleeping a full eight hours. He only needs a little rest, a micro-pause, as it were. The sofa will do fine. 

Three hours after he went to sleep, John wakes him up by preparing breakfast. It’s the first time Sherlock’s slept unpadded since he and John struck their deal a week or so back, and while he hadn’t been bothered by his bladder, it had still made him sleep lighter than he normally would. An interesting side effect, and certainly not one he’d expected. As bothersome as it might be, though, he can’t say that it outweighs the pros, because it doesn’t. Not by far. And, this way, John will at least get to manipulate him into eating a little before their paths separate them once more. He always likes it when he gets to do that.

When John leaves for work that day he leaves Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table. They don’t see each other again until he comes home from work the following day. When John does, Sherlock’s sitting in the same chair again. He’s been busy with the case the entire time, and now he’s deep in his mind palace, digging for some precedence of what just happened, of the turn that the case took. He’s pulled rather forcefully from it when he feels hands on his shoulders, and even though he knows it’s John - John is the only one who’s allowed to fly under the radar - he doesn’t relax. He can’t, not after what happened. The daughter is dead, and it’s his fault. 

“There you are,” John says, oblivious as always. “Case solved, I take it?”

Sherlock says nothing. He simply can’t find it in himself to do so. John will be so disappointed with him, he knows. The way John looks at him sometimes, as though he’s personally responsible for hanging the moon and the stars in the sky, would never be seen again if he knew. If he knew that Sherlock had been made fool of, so thoroughly, and at such a cost. Sherlock doesn’t even move, not even when John starts to give him a slow and gentle massage that ought to, by all means, be enjoyable. It isn’t. 

“Christ, you’re tense,” John observes, driving thumbs against muscle that won’t budge no matter what John does with it. It isn’t right, this. Sherlock doesn’t deserve it. He ought to be in prison himself, right now. He ought to be made to stand trial for what he did. Pursuing the father, falling so easily for planted evidence… It’s pathetic. 

“I need you to punish me,” he murmurs, finally able to get something past his lips. Behind him, John stills. For just a fraction of a moment, he hesitates, and then; “What for?”

Sherlock wishes he didn’t have to explain, he really does. He wishes that there was nothing _to_ explain, that he’d managed it all on the first attempt. That he hadn’t gotten someone in trouble the way he had. That’s wishful thinking, though, and wishful thinking will do no one any good. It’s better if he simply buckles down and gets this over with. He’s certain that John will punish him, once he knows the full story. Honestly, he can’t wait for that, for this all to be over. 

“It wasn’t the father,” Sherlock manages. It comes out choked, and it must be obvious that he’s forcing it out. “I insisted they arrest the father and they did, but the girl still died.” 

When there’s no reply from John, Sherlock forces himself to go on, to give more detail. “They arrested him, John, and he wouldn’t talk in the interrogations. I was so certain that he’d save his daughter if he had the power to, and he couldn’t.” There’s another pause here, and then, “It was someone like Moriarty, John. Banks was framed.” 

As Sherlock mentions the name, he can feel a wave of emotion go through John, behind him. Neither of them has forgotten about it, about what happened at the pool, about how easy it had been for the man to hurt them. He can feel John battle against it, too, can feel John overcoming it. It doesn’t need to be said that he does it, nor why; Sherlock knows that John knows that, unless he himself keeps it together, he won’t be able to keep Sherlock together. Similarly, Sherlock feels that, if John can overcome this, then so can he. It has the most peculiar calming effect on him, and he closes his eyes. John doesn’t let go of him.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he says, voice hard and sharp like he actually means it. When Sherlock replies, his own voice is sharper.

“Of course it was! I should’ve known. I should’ve solved it.” That is the truth, the real truth, the one and only truth. Lestrade had relied on him; Mr. Banks had relied on him. He’s solved almost every other case he’s ever taken on, so why not this one? It wasn’t hard to see, in retrospect, how the trail of breadcrumbs he’d been following had been too perfect. He should’ve known. Behind him, John’s fingers dig into his shoulders in a way that forces him to pay attention. 

“No,” John says, using his Dom voice now, the calm and steady voice that anger can’t touch. “Listen to me. If you need pain, I can give you pain, but I am not going to punish you for something that you didn’t do wrong. I forgive you, Sherlock, and I need you to forgive yourself too. Can you do that for me?” 

It isn’t easy, holding back what he feels now. In a way, it’s like John’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing that keep him together. He tries, very carefully, to rely on them, to allow them to guide him, and as he does, he flicks the switch in his head to allow himself to slip into his submissive state of mind. To allow John to guide him. To imagine, just for a moment, that John is right. The result isn’t even words; he just whimpers, feeling more than a little pathetic. At least John still has him. 

“Be a good boy and get on your knees for me,” he says, calm and steady as ever, slowly releasing his hold on Sherlock and taking a step back. “Can you do that, Sherlock?” 

Of course Sherlock can. Like this, he can do anything for John. Just a minute later, John has taken Sherlock’s place in the chair, and Sherlock is resting his head against John’s thigh. There’re fingers in his hair, and some part of him still argues that he doesn’t deserve them, but most of him is too busy enjoying it to protest. Besides, John’s got him. He can afford to let his guard down.

“There you are,” John murmurs, gentle and soft. “You’ve done so much good, Sherlock. You need to forgive yourself for making this one mistake.” 

Only, it isn’t just a one mistake, and surely John knows that too. Surely John knows that Sherlock is no stranger to collateral damage, to people dying who have no business being harmed at all. John must know; John’s been with him for long enough now to know how everything works by now. How solving the case sometimes means paying a price that he wishes he didn’t have to. Only, normally he can handle it. Normally he gets to the truth before the clock runs out. Then again, a lot of things that used to be normal aren’t any more. For example, not having slept in 36 hours used to be nothing. Not so any more.

“I’m tired, John,” he whispers, almost as if he’s afraid someone might hear him. He doesn’t understand why the idea that John would take him up on this little suggestion worries him, not at all. It’s become habit by now, that John changes him and helps him to bed. Not too many nights ago, John had even brushed his hair out for him before they went to sleep. That had felt rather better than it should’ve. Just thinking about it makes Sherlock feel even more sleepy, even though it’s only afternoon still. It’s almost as though the air’s gone out of him completely.

“All right,” John replies, regardless, obviously having picked up Sherlock’s words. “Let’s go get you ready for bed, shall we?” 

They shall, of course. Sherlock lets John guide him back onto his feet and walks up the stairs and into John’s bedroom ahead of the man. They’ve been sharing John’s bed ever since this began now, and Sherlock can’t help but relax further just at the sight of it. He hasn’t slept as well as he does with John in as long as he can remember. Hopefully, tonight will be the same. Hopefully, there won’t be any nightmares.

“Kneel by the bed for me,” John asks him, just as Sherlock’s about to go into the bathroom. He knows that John will want him to wear the nappy tonight as well, and he wants it himself. That has become habit now, too, and the more habit and routine he has in his life, the better off he is. Especially when everything else seems to go wrong. 

Still, he kneels, because he’s asked to. There isn’t any pleasure in taking orders this time around, but there’s plenty of comfort, and he embraces it. Slowly, under John’s guidance, he gets to strip, bit by bit, with John telling him which button to undo, and when, and which garment to shed first. When he’s finished, he stands there all but naked. He still has his trousers and pants bunched up around his knees, because he wasn’t allowed to change positions to remove them completely. He’s soft, all of him soft, and so is John’s smile. 

“Good boy,” he says, and that warms Sherlock to his core, as it always does. He loves being good for John, can’t help that about himself, and isn’t sure that he wants to change it at any rate. Not when it makes him feel like this. 

John comes over to him only to sit on the bed next to him, to once more try and give him that massage he’d wanted to in the kitchen. This time, it’s much more successful, and Sherlock can feel himself melting into it. Accepting it, and, as such, on some level accepting that he deserves it. For a moment, there’s a clash there, something that tries to pull him back up onto the surface, but he doesn’t let it. If he did, it’d be too hard to come back down again, and he knows that he wouldn’t be able to get over what’s happened. It’s easier now. Much easier now. 

It’s only logic, after all. If John is his Master, and John says that he’s forgiven, how could he not be? So he closes his eyes and hums in pleasure as John works the tension from his neck and shoulders, until he feels almost ready to fall asleep right there on his knees. Right there by John’s side. 

Obviously, John picks up on that, because he kisses the top of Sherlock’s head and goes to get the nappy bag, the one Sherlock knows that John always keeps well-stocked. It doesn’t matter that its most exotic outing has been to their living room floor; it’s the idea that matters. That John’s ready to travel with him, anywhere and everywhere, at a moment’s notice. 

Changing Sherlock is swift work by now. Not five minutes later, they’re both in bed together, John in his underwear and Sherlock in his nappy. They’re curled together like always when it’s time to settle down and sleep, although Sherlock can tell that John isn’t tired. He loves John in that moment, for staying with him, even though it doesn’t occur to him that the Dom could’ve done anything but. Sherlock needed the comfort, so of course John provided. He’ll always give Sherlock what Sherlock can’t give himself. There is, however, some small comforts he can come by on his own. 

Without much fuss from his body, he releases his bladder. The nappy quickly warms up with his urine, swells with it so that the padding is pressed against him. That’s a comfort, too, to rest there in a wet nappy. More routine; more things being what they should. It’s new enough to be exciting, too. Now that Sherlock feels settled and calm again, it makes him hard. He lets it be, casually ignores it, in favour of just resting. He needs it, after the day he’s had. 

Some moments later, John’s hand finds his accident, squeezing down on the nappy. The noise it makes tips John of, just as Sherlock knew it would, and Sherlock can almost hear the way John smiles as he notices. 

“That’s fine, love,” he tells Sherlock, kissing his neck in the way that Sherlock just adores. “It can hold it if you need to go again tonight. Just be a good boy for me now and rest.” 

So Sherlock does. The next morning, he goes back to the crime scene. Following a clue that Lestrade had been the first to notice, Sherlock manages to track down the real murderer. He files the whole case away neatly as a lesson in humility and goes on with his life, feeling even more blessed than he had before to have gotten John Watson of all people for a Dominant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.

Out of the first two weeks Sherlock spends in nappies, he wakes up wet ten mornings. After the first four or five times, the inherent difficulty in wetting himself fades, as well as the anxiety that it’ll leak out onto the sheets. He wets himself with ease once those mental blocks are gone, and enjoys himself all the more for it. It’s so easy to take comfort in the fact that he’s allowed to not even care about going to the bathroom, and it appeals the sloth in him greatly. Of course, it also makes him feel very much at John’s mercy, which in turn arouses him every time he so much as thinks about it. Giving himself to John like that, and having John accept the offer every single time, is nothing short of amazing.

When he wakes up early on the two week anniversary of their agreement, he’s still dry. Perhaps that’s why he’s got the more caring and loving part of their relationship on his mind, or perhaps that’s because John’s caressing his side, ever so gently. It’s nice, being so close to him, letting him touch without any kind of urgency or sexual expectation. It’s just them, together, relaxing. There’s nowhere either of them needs to be that day, and Sherlock intends to take full advantage of that, letting his mind go. Allowing himself, to some extent, to be… Utterly ridiculous. 

“We ought to go to the beach,” he says. He hasn’t the least interest in the beach, of course. When he wants to swim, doing so in a pool is more time efficient, safer and more comfortable. It’s good exercise, granted, and he indulges every once in a while, if he hasn’t anything better on. Studies have shown that being physically active helps one be mentally active, and so, there’s that. The other part of going to the beach, he absolutely despises. The lying about in the sand, doing absolutely nothing except absorb sun. It seems meaningless, and it’s dull. That doesn’t mean the way he imagines the beach is dull, though. If there was a beach somewhere, where he and John could get away with lying this closely together and lazily touching one another, that’s a place he’d be happy to go. Perhaps John would even order him to piss himself, right in plain view of anyone who might care to glance their way. With his trunks already glistening wet from the bath, and the sand beneath him absorbing the extra moisture, they’d be certain to get away with it. 

Behind him, John chuckles. “You hate the beach.”

“It seems to me that there could be certain advantages,” Sherlock muses, although of course they both know they aren’t going. It isn’t their thing; just a nice little fantasy to pass the morning hours with. Sherlock, if he has the peace of mind, gladly spends hours building up intricate fantasies of comfort and sex. “You could rub sun block on me. I could wet myself where everyone saw, and they’d just think it was water.” 

Another sound from John, this one more contemplative. He does know how badly Sherlock likes to be looked at, after all, and Sherlock is fairly certain that John would get a thrill out of showing him about, too. Perhaps, some day, they’ll make their plans reality. For now, Sherlock doesn’t want to lift a muscle, and neither does John. It’s just the thought that’s nice.

“I had something different in mind, actually,” John tells him, and Sherlock hums for John to go on. It isn’t too early to add on to their relationship, not at all, he thinks. It’s only a shame that John has yet to ask Sherlock for a blow job, that they’ve yet to be truly intimate with one another. The closest they’ve come is the time that John made Sherlock wank all over the bathroom floor, and while indeed a very sexually stimulating experience, it hasn’t exactly been enough for him. He wants John, so much, in so many ways. He wants John inside of him. 

“Orgasm control,” John suggests, and while that wasn’t quite what Sherlock had expected, he can’t say that the idea doesn’t appeal to him, because it does. A great deal, at that. Enough so that he rolls over onto his back, so as not to miss a single expression on John’s face. The look of John taking charge is one of Sherlock’s favourite things in the whole wide world, and he isn’t shy about letting as much be know. Making eye contact, he tells John, “Go on.” 

John does, but not before he’s let his hand move down over Sherlock’s body to caress the side of his hip rather than his ribs, thumb soft in the hollow there. It almost dips in underneath the nappy, but only almost.

“I was thinking,” John muses, “that you’d only get to come when I say that you’re allowed to.” 

Sherlock hums his agreement. He’s with John on this so far. That he’s been allowed to masturbate and come whenever he pleases - and taken gratuitous advantage of it - was always something that would come to an end, be it like this or by his body going back into a disinterested phase. He greatly prefers it to go like this. John, however, isn’t done. 

“I was also thinking,” he ventures on, “that I’d only allow it on the days you wake up wet.” 

Something very warm spreads in Sherlock’s belly at that. He doesn’t need any further incentive to wet himself, of course; he adores it as is. Adores being dependent on John, adores being cared for like that… Adores abandoning control. Then again, when he’s already abandoned control of his bladder, then why not do the same about his balls? The idea of offering up one piece of his body at a time for John to control for him is alluring indeed, and Sherlock has to force his mind back on topic to not lose track of himself entirely. 

“Will there be any sort of chastity device?” he asks, although he already suspects the answer. John doesn’t strike him as the kind of man who uses tools to do his job for him to any particular extent, and just like he’d thought, the Dom shakes his head. A small smile plays on John’s lips.

“We won’t need one, will we? You’ll do what I tell you to do without one, too.” 

Sherlock has to agree with that, albeit silently. Of course he will. He’ll always try his very best to do anything that John tells him to do. There’s no point in telling John, though, and eventually disappointing him, because, as he’s sure they both know deep down, following orders blindly isn’t Sherlock’s thing. He can certainly do it when he gets something out of it too, but then he thinks about all the delicious punishments that he knows John wants to try on him, and the thumb stroking his stomach suddenly feels a lot more intimate. 

“What if I don’t obey?” he asks, mostly to satisfy John. He knows that the man wouldn’t want to hurt him, not really and truly, and so, there’s this conversation first. Sherlock was always sceptical to this kind of thing before - if he didn’t really surrender control of himself, then what was the point of it all? - but John has a way of making him feel as though it’s more real for the fact that Sherlock has agreed to anything they might try beforehand. In addition to which, of course, talking about enjoyable things is enjoyable on its own. 

“I’d have to punish you, of course,” John tells him, voice as gentle as the way his fingers move over Sherlock’s skin. “I think I’d spank you, actually. Make you lie across my lap and count out the slaps for me.” 

Sherlock had known that John was an old-fashioned kind of Dominant, of course, but he can’t help that hearing it from the man himself makes him aroused. It has him picture it, what John’s telling him, and as warmth spreads through his stomach he lets the same spread through his nappy, pissing noisily into it. It isn’t quite the same as waking up wet, of course, but they’re still in bed, so it has to count for something… Or at least he hopes so. Either way, whether John takes this as a sign that sex is about to happen or as a signal to spank Sherlock silly, he’s sure that he’s going to enjoy what comes next. He’s never been spanked in a wet nappy before, and he has to admit that the notion intrigues him. 

He isn’t disappointed. John picks up on what he’s doing quickly, and Sherlock is barely done going when John sticks his hand down into the nappy. He gets wet, Sherlock’s cock and balls still moist with the liquid, but that doesn’t exactly bother either of them. Under John’s firm touch, Sherlock grows fully hard quickly, and before long he’s grasping for something to hold on to only to find John’s firm shoulders. 

“You still have to ask permission,” John reminds him, even as he wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s length and manages, despite the awkward angle, to give him a decent few strokes. For a moment, Sherlock can’t even imagine what he’s talking about. Permission? But he’s already… They’re already… And then it hits him. Permission to come. 

The idea sends another thrill through him, this one bigger than the one from being touched. It isn’t so much that John touches him, if he’s quite honest about it, but how, and the circumstances, that he gets off on. Perhaps, he thinks, mouth falling open in a quiet moan, his body has fallen into a disinterested phase long ago, and it’s simply his mind that keeps him going. 

Regardless, he doesn’t mind asking. Not one bit. 

“May I come?” he gasps, and John’s hand closes more tightly around his cock, tugging a little more firmly. As far as hand jobs go, this is one of the better ones Sherlock has had in recent history, and that is in no small part thanks to his nappy.

“No,” John says, and Sherlock moans louder.

“Please,” he ventures, and he sees a spark of something come alive in John’s eyes. Oh, John wants him begging, then. John wants him a pleading mess. If that’s so, Sherlock can provide. In fact, the simple thought takes Sherlock one step closer to being positively wanton.

“Please, Master, may I come?” he says, exaggerating his noises of pleasure somewhat as he does so. It’s a balance, sounding needy without going overboard with it. Luckily for both of them, it’s a balance Sherlock mastered long ago, wanting to drive some other nameless partner insane with want for him. He’s glad that he’s with John, now, that it’s John’s mouth that falls open and John’s motions that speed up. 

“I don’t know,” John tells him, “do you really think you’ve deserved it?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, drawn-out because of a moan. “Yes, I’m wet, I wet myself.” John can feel that, though, Sherlock realises. Everything inside his nappy is slick with urine, as is evident of from nothing else then from the scent rising up out of it. That isn’t what John is after. “I’ll make you come too,” he tries instead, hanging on tighter to John. As he comes closer, with or without John’s permission, some desperation slips into his voice. “Please, Master, I’ll do anything you ask. Just please may I come?” 

A few torturous moments pass in silence, and Sherlock feels nothing but John’s hand on him and John’s breath in his face. The pressure inside him builds more and more, his balls tighten in his nappy and he _wants_ so badly, and then John tells him, “Yes, baby, come for me,” and Sherlock’s toes curl up against the sheets. Moments later, he’s doing as he’d told, coming in thick spurts across John’s hand and his own stomach. He lies back, spent, to have a few silent moments. John, in the mean time, reaches for the towel he keeps under the nightstand to wipe himself off. As Sherlock starts to come back into the now, John pushes his underwear down to take his cock in hand. The sight of it all but makes Sherlock’s mouth water, and despite everything - despite the come on his stomach, despite the wet nappy, despite his recent orgasm - he makes to shuffle down the bed and suck John. 

John stops him by pulling on his hair to bring him back up, to make them level once more. 

“I just want your hand,” he tells Sherlock, guiding that downwards instead. Perhaps, if Sherlock hadn’t been so dazed, he would’ve protested. He’s half a mind to do so anyway, but if this is what John wants, then this is what John wants. At the root of most of his desires, all Sherlock wants is to please John anyhow, and if this is the way to do so, then he’ll do this. 

It isn’t as slow as Sherlock would’ve wanted, and no way near as intense as he thinks John deserves, but for the minutes it lasts Sherlock gets to look at John’s face and see, for the first time, exactly what he looks like when he’s feeling nothing but pleasure. It’s what Sherlock imagines John would look like when Sherlock rode him, too; eyes screwed shut as though he was focusing hard on something, mouth hanging open just so as if he isn’t getting enough air, and the most lovely noises falling from his mouth. John, Sherlock learns, is vocal in bed, letting curses and moans and Sherlock’s name spill into the air again and again. It does something to Sherlock that has nothing at all to do with arousal, and everything to do with emotion. Everything to do with love. By the time John comes, Sherlock feels more humbled and more owned than he has in a while, and all because he was allowed to give John so much pleasure. If he had any doubts before, they’re gone then. John’s the one, the only one, for him. 

When Sherlock wakes up the following morning, he’s wet even though he doesn’t remember waking up to piss. At first, the notion unsettles him, but then he realises what it really means and relaxes, embracing it. He really does belong to John, now. Completely.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.

When Sherlock wakes up the following Wednesday, it’s obvious that something is wrong from the start. For one, John isn’t in bed when he wakes up, and that’s never been something Sherlock appreciates. Secondly, he starts feeling agitated and bored before he’s even made it to the shower. The world doesn’t agree with him today, as if it doesn’t want him in it. He can feel as much deep in his bones, how useless he is. It’s a day that would’ve been a danger day, had it been Before John in his life… And John is supposed to be there. He doesn’t have a shift at the clinic, which Sherlock knows, because Sherlock knows John’s schedule by heart. It is by and large a schedule he lives his own life after these days, so he makes a point of memorizing it. 

Once he’s clean and dressed, he sends John a text. Where are you? SH 

Five minutes go by without a reply before Sherlock tires of staring at the screen of his phone. Perhaps John went out for groceries, he reasons. Perhaps John is trying to find something special to bring home for breakfast, to goad Sherlock into eating. He didn’t have dinner the night before, no matter how much John nagged him. Eating isn’t in their deal, and it isn’t something Sherlock feels any particular interest in doing just now either. What’s the point, anyhow? Fueling his body to walk around and his mind to think when all he really wants to do was crawl back into bed and shoot up?

Not a good line of thought, though, so Sherlock shuts off the mental process and opts instead to recline on the sofa. John can’t be away for any longer amount of time or he’d have left a note, or some other sentimental thing, as though Sherlock was a child completely unable to take care of himself. That line of thought, no matter how self-critical, hits home in a rather unexpected way as he’s reminded of the wet nappy he’d disposed of not even an hour ago. In certain ways, John certainly has Sherlock right where he wants him by now. And in others…

Sherlock turns over on the sofa, rather dramatically, and curls up as best he’s able to in the limited space. Normally, he would be replaying what it feels like to be high right now. He has the memory of it saved away, sitting in a wooden box in his bedside table in his childhood bedroom in the mind palace, and sometimes he’ll go up there, open the box and… Indulge. Not today, though. Today, he feels like another kind of sweet self-destruction entirely. Self destruction via John. Sherlock’s convinced that it’s safer that way than the drugs could ever be, and more purposeful. Who knows, maybe it’ll even cure him. He can’t know until he’s tried, and he’s yet to try.

He’s yet to misbehave at all, really. John hasn’t had a reason to punish him a single time yet, but then again, John hasn’t given him much to disobey. The only chance he’s ever really had is to sneak out of their warm, comfortable bed and John’s gentle embrace in order to go to the bathroom, when he could just as well stay right where he is and do his business without so much as waking his lover. Getting up, when given a choice, isn’t something he’d want to do even if the situation was the reverse, he’s absolutely certain. That means that there aren’t any memories of punishment to draw from, that he has to imagine it instead. Most of the sensory input is there; the trick is simply to imagine those things coming from John. The sting of a whip, the dull throbbing pain of a paddle, the burn from being stretched too far too quickly, the distinct taste of piss in his mouth… It’s all absolutely delicious. 

When his phone goes off, he’s almost annoyed that John pulled him out of his reverie. None the less, he has a look before he allows himself to get too annoyed - something might have happened, someone might be hurt - but he didn’t have to worry. At Tesco. Be back soon. JW

Leave it to John to bother Sherlock with such boring, obvious information. At least he hadn’t gone on and on in the text, or used emoticons. Emoticons annoy Sherlock like little else with how imprecise they are, but that isn’t something he wants to think about. There were nicer things on his mind just a moment ago, but replaying them to find the point where he left off isn’t half as interesting as thinking it all up initially had been. All in all, he’s starting to frustrate himself a whole lot. Perhaps, if he allowed himself to pretend that he was tied down, instead…

That’s a fantasy that works incredibly well. So well, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice when John comes back home. In his mind, John never left bed that morning, and Sherlock is tied down against the sheets with soft leather cuffs. He knows John has them, because he’s gone through his closet, and he was tempted to try them on the moment he saw them. They’re gorgeous things, black leather on the outside with padding and a silk-like lining on the inside. Sherlock is certain that they can’t have been cheap, and can’t help but wonder if they were a gift. If so, he’s happy there was no matching collar.

In reality, though, just as Sherlock starts to wonder if his imagination John is through with not touching just yet, the real John touches his foot and says his name. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, and John smiles at him. 

“Where were you just now?” John asks as he goes to sit in his arm chair, turned so that he and Sherlock can face each other across the room, even with Sherlock in his sulk position. 

“I was upstairs,” Sherlock tells him, “tied down.” 

John doesn’t so much as blink. Then again, why should he? He knows that Sherlock takes an interest in bondage, and he’s all but offered to help him along. Sherlock ought to ask, he thinks, one of these days. If John would let him use those leather cuffs. If he would perhaps be willing to try some sensory deprivation, while they’re at it. Submerge Sherlock entirely, leave him to his own mind… But not now. That’s for a day when he doesn’t feel quite so annoyed with what goes on inside of his own head.

John clears his throat, and then says, “Would you like to be on your knees instead?”

A part of Sherlock is thrilled that John’s asking him, finally, to do what he’s been longing to do ever since that first night when they discussed kinks. Another, bigger part of him is annoyed. Why does it have to be now, of all times, when he wants nothing so much as to go lie down underneath his bed and never come out? Does John really think that he looks like he wants this now? Is the sight of Sherlock in his cotton pajamas arousing? 

“No,” he snaps, then, letting John know just how stupid he’s being. Stupid, for not being able to tell that Sherlock’s not in the right mood. Stupid, for thinking that being on his knees would make him feel better. Perhaps, if this had been an average day, or if he was upset with something a tad more tangible, it would’ve been the right thing to suggest. Like this, anything is just a reason for further annoyance that he can latch onto. 

“Sherlock.” There’s just a hint of threat to John’s voice, and it’s a hint that Sherlock’s glad to hear. He doesn’t really want John to be someone he can push around - does in fact, in some ways, rely on John to not be someone he can push around - so every time there’s something approaching a warning about behaviour coming from the man, Sherlock trusts him more. Now isn’t an exception to that rule, Sherlock notes absently. He still feels as though John can fix this for him… And hopefully, he will. 

“I said no,” Sherlock snaps, taking in the mild confusion on John’s face. “Did you not hear me the first time or are you simply too stupid to comprehend the concept?”

Watching the confusion on John’s face make way for determination is a beautiful thing, and when he speaks, his calm, hard voice makes goose flesh break out across the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

“You will come here and kneel between my knees right now, unless you want to make this even worse for yourself.” 

Sherlock considers disobeying further, but in the end, he doesn’t want to give John the idea that this is something he doesn’t want - because he does want it. He remembers the safe word John made him choose, and then he remembers the time that he pushed too hard about not eating dinner and John hadn’t bought him any for almost a whole week. There’s a clear message in all of John’s actions, and that is, “you better fucking appreciate this, or it’ll stop coming.” 

So Sherlock, knowing what’s best for him and for John, rolls over and picks himself up off the sofa only to drop back down again just where John asked for him to be, in between the Dom’s spread legs. When John reaches over and presses on his spine, he even corrects his posture, putting his feet and his knees together as he straightens his back. This earns him the shadow of a smile, as if John wants desperately to tell him see what you can do when you put your mind to it, but luckily for them both, he does no such thing. His only comment is, “Good.” Then his hands go to unzip his fly, and Sherlock can’t take his eyes off of what John is doing. 

Surely John doesn’t intend to ignore Sherlock’s brattiness just now. He can’t, not when Sherlock needs him to do something about it so badly, not when it seemed as though he understood… And yet, John simply goes on, taking his cock from his pants until he can sit comfortably and stroke himself at once. Sherlock can practically feel himself salivate, and he perks up, leaning forward. He wants John’s cock, and he wants it badly, but it doesn’t seem right to go for it. Not now. 

“Not yet,” John tells him, as though he’d read his mind. “You should’ve come here when I asked you to. I warned you what would happen if you didn’t.” Of course, John had. A while back, he’d told Sherlock that he’d be punished for disobeying. It hadn’t been in connection with this, but it had certainly been close enough that Sherlock understood where John was coming from. Being bad means being punished. A shiver shoots up Sherlock’s spine. Soon, he won’t have to pretend any more. Soon, his annoyance will be beaten out of him, he’s certain. He nods his agreement. John goes on.

“You will give me what I want,” he says, stroking himself lazily, slowly, as he speaks, “but first, I will punish you. Get on my lap, facing the wall.” 

Sherlock does, without hesitance, this time. He’s about to get what he wants, after all… Or so he hopes. He doesn’t think that John is the kind to go too easy on him just because this is their first time - the position he’s putting Sherlock in certainly doesn’t seem to point towards that, if nothing else. The angle is strange, and Sherlock has to keep his knees bent and his forearms resting on John’s thigh to keep himself balanced as well as in position. It doesn’t seem like that’s what his Dom wants for him, though, no matter how undignified Sherlock is sure he looks. 

“Ungrateful brats don’t get that kind of support,” John tells him, and rather unceremoniously pushes him further forward to change the angle. Even though John is shorter than Sherlock, the chair is high enough that he ends up straining to put his hands to the floor, so that he won’t fall when what he assumes to be a spanking begins. This puts him with his bottom high in the air and his calves stretched out uncomfortably as John caresses up his pajama-clad thigh. 

“Better,” he praises, and the simple word makes the struggle a little more worthwhile. It’s good to be reminded, in a sense, that he has a purpose. That the world isn’t meaningless, because the meaning of his life is to serve John. He isn’t sure why that’s an association he makes there and then, but he doesn’t particularly care why. He only cares that it’s happened. That, and that John’s palm lands hard across his bum, with absolutely no warning beforehand. The blow, taking him by surprise, causes him to make an undignified noise. He can all but hear John smirk above him and he blushes as he tries to brace himself better. 

The next blow, a little harsher, brings a moan from him. John keeps working him over, spreading the slaps in a way that has Sherlock grow hard at first. By the time John peels his trousers off of him to continue the spanking with fewer layers, it’s starting to truly ache, and Sherlock’s erection does too. At least John isn’t holding back, that much is certain, and all at once Sherlock feels so very grateful to the man above him, for being able to put him in his place when he needs it, for being able to shift his focus like this. It’s very difficult for him to be in a black mood when he’s certain his bottom is turning red.

By the time Sherlock thinks that they might just be done soon, John peels off his underpants, too. Sherlock thinks he’s only going to inspect his work, only going to rub soothing circles over Sherlock’s skin… But he doesn’t. Instead, he goes on, slapping what is now sore and blushing, and it’s not long before Sherlock feels as though he might cry. What feels like an eternity later, he does cry out, unintentionally and embarrassingly. It’s only a spanking, and he ought to be able to handle it. He’s had worse before, much worse, without making a sound… But this is what it is, and his whole lower body feels warm and heavy. The erection has faded away, and left behind an odd feeling of vulnerability. Sherlock wants to cry, he realises, but he also doesn’t want to disappoint John… Although of course it’s as likely that John would be disappointed by a lack of tears.

In the end, he doesn’t have to, because his cry of pain marks the end of his punishment. It was harsh, just the way he needed it, and it’s left him feeling meek in a way that is rare for him. Even when he’s submissive, he’s brash and eager to get at what he wants. This is different; this is much more comfortable. He doesn’t even make to get up when he realises that it’s over, doesn’t do anything but melt into the soothing hand John has put on the small of his back. Yes. All of him just feels better, again. 

“Did you learn your lesson, Sherlock?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

He isn’t so sure that he has, but he doesn’t want John to start hurting him again. He’s been sufficiently hurt, and going past this point would be cruel. He’d accept it, of course, and forgive it afterwards, but he can all but feel his pulse running through the skin of his arse. It’s sore, and he knows that sitting down won’t be an option for at least the rest of the day. 

“Good,” John tells him, letting the hand move down over Sherlock’s hurt flesh. It’s very tender but John is very careful, inspecting Sherlock’s skin for things that Sherlock can’t fathom. Perhaps he only wants to check and see that everything is okay. Perhaps he only wants to admire his handiwork. Either way, Sherlock lies still, and waits. The silence, the true silence, with no slap of skin on skin, makes him relax. Like this, being submerged in his own mind would be heaven. John doesn’t seem to pay that any mind. “Good,” he repeats, and then, “Will you get back on your knees for me, Sherlock?” 

Unsteadily, and slowly, Sherlock does. It’s strange to change a position where he was so stretched and vulnerable for one where he’s compact like this, but at least the blood starts flowing again. He hadn’t even realised his arms had been in any danger of falling asleep, but moving them again feels good. With John’s assistance and patience, he’s back on his knees in a minute, arms having been kindly rotated and looked after. As Sherlock settles in, he sees that John’s erection hasn’t gone away. Good, Sherlock thinks. He doesn’t want to be a distraction, a disappointment, to his Master. John is supposed to enjoy this, and his own body makes a half-hearted attempt at arousal in response to it, leaving a pleasant feeling in his groin. 

“Good,” John says for a third time, and reaches out to cup Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock lets him, resting his head in John’s hand as he’s guided forward, and he shifts over willingly. As long as he doesn’t try to sit on his heels, the position is comfortable, and by the time John’s pulled him right up to his cock, he’s starting to feel more himself again. The warmth in his stomach is back, even though the calm of his mind hasn’t left yet. Heaven indeed, Sherlock thinks, and then John’s pushing inside his mouth. 

He tastes just like Sherlock remembered from before, from the bathroom, but cleaner, and less. If he’d been in a state of mind to experience disappointment, he probably would’ve felt it just then, but he can’t feel disappointed now. He’s getting to please his Master; what’s to be disappointed about? He sucks John slowly, the way he thinks John will enjoy it, taking his time to lick and taste and thoroughly get to know John’s reactions. Somewhere in the midst of experiencing and cataloging all of John’s moans and pauses and twitches, Sherlock’s own arousal fades away entirely. It simply doesn’t seem important. The only thing that’s important is John, and how beautifully John responds to Sherlock’s strokes and touches.

A flat, wet tongue pushing against the underside slows things down; hollowing his cheeks around the head speeds them up. Trying to work John down his throat, however unsuccessful, brings enthusiastic moans. When Sherlock uses his hand on what he can’t fit in his mouth and makes sure that his lips and his fist meet on every thrust, that’s what really gets John going, grabbing a handful of Sherlock’s hair. He alternates between these things and other things, slowly getting to know John’s body the way he’s always wanted to. Taking his time there is wonderful, so when he feels John getting close, he considers slowing down again. Perhaps he could pull off entirely to press wet kisses to John’s balls, but when he tries to do that, John keeps him in place. No, then; his Master wants to come. So Sherlock makes him, sucking a bit more insistently on just the head again as he wanks John off, all but milks him into Sherlock’s own mouth. 

The taste of John’s come might be the most gratifying thing to have happened to Sherlock all week, especially as it’s complemented by John tugging on his hair and moaning out his name. Sherlock had suspected that John would come silently, like he does when he wanks, but he’s glad that isn’t the case. Perhaps he does this now to indulge Sherlock. Perhaps it’s simply become a habit for him to hold back when no one’s there to benefit from anything else. Perhaps he’s just putting on a show. 

No matter the reasons, it’s all over too soon, with John allowing Sherlock to pull back and Sherlock swallowing, slowly, as though he’s trying to savour the gift he’s been given. As he tries to sit back, he’s pleasantly reminded, once more, of what his purpose here on earth is. To please John Watson. The dark moods from before have all but blown over, and Sherlock remains on his knees while John takes a moment to relax and recover, his eyes closed and a smile playing on his lips. The sight of it warms something in Sherlock’s chest, makes him feel proud of how good he’s been. How good he can be. It isn’t long before John opens his eyes again and his smile grows wider as he sees Sherlock - Sherlock, who’s only just now starting to wonder why he isn’t hard. Perhaps it was simply blissful enough to get to serve, this time around. John, as always, doesn’t leave him much time to wonder about that. 

“Let’s go get you sorted,” he says instead, stroking a gentle thumb across Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ve some soothing lotion I think your arse would appreciate.” As John leads Sherlock up into the bedroom by the hand, Sherlock can’t help but long for tonight, for his nappy, for feeling just as cared for again and just as good all over again. Even without his own moods and John’s pleasure and approval being part of the equation, Sherlock is sure he would’ve enjoyed the punishment he’d taken simply for the aftercare. John is a doctor, after all, and Sherlock adores letting John care for him almost as much as he adores taking care of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has over a hundred subscriptions as of this week! Thank you all so much for your support. If there's something special you'd like to see from me, feel very free to leave a prompt in the comments below ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.
> 
> Work has been taking up a lot more time and energy lately, so chapters may be far between for some time.

“It’s been a while since I let you come, hasn’t it?”

John says this very casually over breakfast, as though they were discussing the weather. The answer is equally obvious as the rain that patters against their windows, too; it has been a while. It’s been 6 days and a little under 2 hours, in actual fact, and Sherlock feels something stir inside him at the mere thought that he might actually be allowed another orgasm. Normally, going a week without any kind of sex is just fine as far as Sherlock’s concerned. This time, though, it’s as if the fact that he can’t have it makes it even more desirable.

It’s not like Sherlock has been entirely celibate during that time, though. John’s wanted his mouth twice during the week, and Sherlock has been a good boy and indulged him. Given how long it had taken the bruises to fade the last time, he felt like he hadn’t had a choice. Another spanking on top of the old one hadn’t seemed like a particularly attractive notion - besides which, sucking John is arousing and enjoyable even without the promise of a reward. Especially without the promise of a reward, on any normal day. 

“May I come today?” Sherlock asks hesitantly, just as John puts another bite of scrambled eggs in his mouth. He doesn’t think that John will allow it, even though he did wake up wet this morning, after sleepily going at three o’clock. He gets the feeling that John’s saving up for something special, and for once, he’s no idea what. If he’d known, he would’ve been sure to work hard towards it, and having it taken out of his control is equal measures frustrating and just absolutely right. It’s supposed to be John’s decision. That, however, doesn’t make it any less agitating when he’s teased like this - because, just as predicted, John shakes his head. 

“Not today,” he says once his mouth is empty again, offering Sherlock a kind smile. “More juice?”

Sherlock accepts all but automatically, mind already racing over what it might be that John is waiting for. Surely, there has to be something specific, or John wouldn’t be making it obvious like this. It’s a game, he’s confident, and he loves games. He loves to win them, and when it comes to John, he’s fairly certain that he’s going to love losing them, too. 

Later that same evening, when Sherlock’s come back from Bart’s and John’s only a few minutes from home as well - something Sherlock knows, because he’s texted in advance, to be able to determine exactly when John will be home - he’s come up with a few options, arranged by how easy they’ll be to test. The first one, easiest by far, is to simply seduce John.

Sherlock knows about John’s general tastes, after all, and a few more specific things as well, after the talks they’ve had and the fantasies they’ve shared and the things that John has asked of him. Well. What few things John actually has asked of him. Most notable of the two, though, is the nappies. The wettings. Seeing how that was the first thing John asked of Sherlock, it ought to be the thing that turns him on the most, Sherlock reasons. Of course, it could be the other way around as well. It’s something John considers relatively tame, and as such, a relatively good and easy place for them to start out. 

Although, Sherlock reasons, if that was it, they would’ve gotten a whole lot further now than they actually have. If John was itching for things like humiliation and exhibitionism and unpleasant, unpleasant tasks, they would be there already. They’ve certainly been together for long enough, and Sherlock has certainly shown John that he’s comfortable enough, for that to be true. 

So, then. John likes wetting. John likes Sherlock unable to keep himself from doing it, that’s for absolute certain. Besides - if it’s a good enough place for John to begin, it ought to be a good enough place for Sherlock to begin, too. Knowing John’s habits, Sherlock sets up a careful scenario, putting himself in front of his laptop by the kitchen table. He’s got experiment data he needs to analyse and review in preparation for the following day, so it works out rather well for him regardless of his ploy. He’s purposefully positioned himself so that the entire chair he’s sitting on is visible from the kitchen counter, and so, all he needs to do is wait. 

Just as planned, he doesn’t need to wait long. John comes bustling in at approximately the time that Sherlock had established, umbrella in hand and a slightly bothered look on his face, as though his shift was particularly boring or unpleasant. Knowing John, it probably was. 

“Evening,” Sherlock tells him casually, starting to bounce one leg up and down, as though he were nervous - or, more accurately, as though he needed to piss. He does, of course, but not half as badly as he’s affecting. It’s more simply comfortable just then, of all the things to take comfort in. _Look what John has reduced me to,_ he thinks wryly, sort of satisfied with himself as he, out of the corner of his eye, notices that John does a double take over him. 

“Evening,” the man replies simply, going on just as expected, to fill the kettle. Sherlock doesn’t bother him as he makes his tea, bustling around the kitchen, washing hands that are no doubt clean already. How predictable John can be is comforting too, and Sherlock, upping his game as John puts his tea bag into the cup, crosses his legs as tightly as he comfortably can. Again, he can feel John’s eyes on him, but he ignores it as though he were totally oblivious about what’s going on. 

“Fancy a cuppa?” John asks him, eyeing him suspiciously, but Sherlock just shakes his head at the laptop screen. 

“Mm, no,” he says, making an effort to sound properly distracted, even though most - if not all - of his attention is focused right on John. He can’t see the look on his face as he goes on, “Something to drink is the last thing I need”, and it annoys him a bit, because he’d bet that the expression John’s making must be spectacular. This is the first time their bedroom play crosses over into something not strictly… bedroom. 

“I see,” John tells him carefully, eyeing him even as he tosses the tea bag into the sink and takes a careful sip. Apparently it lacks in milk, because John goes to get some from the fridge. Sherlock decides that it’s show time, then, with John standing in a place where they can easily look each other in the face. 

He shuts the lid of his laptop decisively and pushes to a stand, as though he’s finally given up on his statistics in order to indulge his body’s needs. When he’d planned this earlier today, he’d thought that the timing would be difficult, that it’d be tricky to make it seem as though his body finally gave in at just the moment when he’d relaxed, because he’d decided to go use the loo. As it turns out, his body does that all for him; when he stands and simultaneously uncrosses his legs, a small amount of urine hits his underwear. When he gasps, it’s from genuine surprise. Apparently, going in the nappies had made his body more suggestive than he’d thought. 

Regardless, this is a good thing just now, so he pushes on, allowing himself to pretend that he’s upstairs, in bed, safely contained. He isn’t, though, and as urine starts to run down his legs, he’s made painfully aware of that. It doesn’t disgust him, though; it’s not worse than many of the things he’s done before. It’s simply new, and the feeling of the warm puddle he’s standing in soaking into his socks is altogether unexpected. Out of a nappy, even the sheer volume seems that much bigger. 

Affecting helplessness is altogether easier than he had thought, too. As he looks across to John, he almost feels it in reality, in the way the puddle beneath him grows. Simply watching John is reassuring, though; the way his cup sits in his hand, halfway forgotten, fridge still open, erection suddenly obvious in his trousers. Oh, this might actually work, Sherlock thinks as his stream finally trickles off into nothing. John might actually decide to have him. 

They stand together for a moment in silence. The only thing to be heard is the dripping from Sherlock’s trousers and the hum of the fridge. Perhaps half a minute passes before John finally says, “Right,” and puts the milk back where it belongs. “Right,” he repeats, finding his voice again, talking a bit more steadily now. About to take charge, certainly. “What’s this?”

Sherlock hesitates. Should he lie, and tell John that he simply had an accident? Or should he tell the truth? He decides on something halfway in between, not exactly explaining what he’s up to but not denying it either. 

“It’s for you, John,” he says, “don’t you like it?” Even though he’s playing at submissive, it comes out cockier than he’d expected. Overcompensating for his anxiety that he was wrong to take a chance on this, certainly. 

“You know,” John says, almost casually, as he steps around the table to come closer, “I rather think I like this gift. Get on your knees for me, Sherlock.”

Now, that, as pleasant as the idea is, wasn’t what Sherlock had expected. John has yet to properly fuck him, which is another thing that has bothered Sherlock for a while now, and he’d hoped that perhaps this would somehow get them there. He wants to feel John inside of him, wants to be that close and that intimate with his boyfriend, his lover, his _John_ , but every time he’s asked, John simply tells him, “later.” 

With only some slight hesitance, Sherlock does as he’s told, kneeling down right where he was standing. The pee that had before been soaking slowly into his socks now starts staining his knees and shins, too, making him feel warm and wet and even more helpless than before. Across the kitchen, John takes a sip of his tea. His eyes roam over Sherlock’s body slowly, no doubt trying to memorize this moment, and his hand strokes over his fly lazily, as if he’s teasing himself. Sherlock’s mouth waters. If second prize is getting to suck John, he certainly doesn’t mind coming in second. 

A few moments pass in silence, before John stops fondling himself in favour of putting both hands around his cup. “You’re such a mess for me, Sherlock,” he says, looking him over with warmth in his eyes. “Such a hopeless mess. Get on all fours.” It’s said almost kindly, as though it was a term of affection, and Sherlock happily does as he’s told. John’s mess; yeah, that’s him. The idea makes him feel warm all over.

“Eyes down,” John goes on. The command is short and clear, and Sherlock never even considers disobeying. When Master speaks, he listens, and he does as he’s told. The wooden floor beneath him is turning darker, and all he can see of John now is his shoes. Before long, they step out of view.

This isn’t going to be a blow job, Sherlock realises, as John silently walks out of the kitchen altogether. He doesn’t even tell Sherlock where he’s going, or for how long he’ll be gone; he just goes. The facts add up slower than they normally would - and really, who could blame him for that - but once it all adds up in his head, he feels himself go warm from the inside out. John wants him on all fours. John’s leaving, presumably to fetch something... _Oh._ Perhaps this worked as he’d intended it to, after all.

The notion of it makes Sherlock’s wait peaceful, has him content throughout the few short minutes that John is actually gone. He sinks further into his submissive headspace as he waits, uncertain if what is to come is a punishment or a reward. It doesn’t matter; it’s up to Master. Master knows best.

When John finally returns, he steps up from behind, and Sherlock can’t see him at all, can only hear him and sense him there, until John puts the warm palm of one hand on the small of his back. It’s comforting, reminding Sherlock that he can stay relaxed even with John behind him. His Dominant will take good care of him, Sherlock is absolutely certain, and he makes a sound that could be, but certainly isn’t, a whimper.

“There we go,” John tells him, putting a considerably amount of his weight onto Sherlock’s back as he seemingly lowers himself down on his knees behind him. Again, it frustrates Sherlock that he can’t see John’s face, can only deduce from how warmth seems to radiate off of the man that he isn’t wearing any clothes. Again, it excites and placates Sherlock that John holds the power to frustrate him like this, just because it pleases him. By the time John’s hand comes up in between Sherlock’s legs, he’s almost trembling from all the sensations, and he’s growing hard in his soaked jeans.

“Better pull those down a bit,” John says, as if to himself. Sherlock only hums in reply and lets John do it for him, lets John undo his button and his fly and tug the wet fabric down over his hips. As he does, some more piss leaks down his legs from his underwear, greatly surprising Sherlock. It had been so long that he’d forgotten about the logistics of all this, that there was actually more to it than the puddle. That he could hold so much fluid inside of him. 

“That’s better,” John tells him once his arse is bare, pale and sticky, no doubt. He knows that it’ll starting itching before long and certainly hopes that John will let him take a bath when this is over, but then there are hands on his skin and worries about future discomfort seem distant again. Unimportant. 

“You’ve got a really nice arse,” John tells him, hands moving up and down. It could be for Sherlock’s benefit, but he knows that it’s not, that it’s John who wants to feel him for his own sake, and that too makes him aroused. Being so close to victory is making it easy to let go of control. Behind him, John clears his throat. “I think it’s about time I put it to good use. Don’t you?”

Sherlock, of course, agrees. A soft hum of consent is all John needs before he’s reaching away for something, something which clicks open, something John takes the time to warm between his hands before he slowly applies to Sherlock’s arse. It’s deceptively comfortable, this being gently prepared, and it makes Sherlock release some tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying. John isn’t going to hurt him, not even like this. John is going to take just as excellent care of him now as he does during the nappy changes.

He takes his time about it, too, working his fingers inside Sherlock slowly and gently, one at a time, until the detective feels as though he might explode, as though he might come just from that. With one of John’s hands steady at his hip and the other expanding him for use, readying him to be for John’s pleasure, he quickly grows rock hard. Normally his libido isn’t all there, but again, it’s easy to get ahead of himself with the scent of victory in the air.

He’s certain at least fifteen minutes has passed by the time John pulls his fingers out. By then, Sherlock’s hole won’t close properly, and he stays relaxed as he hears John put on a condom behind him. It seems as though all the blood in his body is between his legs just then, making him feel light-headed and warm. 

By the time John pushes into him, he’s almost forgotten that he has yet to actually ask for permission. He moans, eyes rolling back into his head as he can feel himself nearing the edge, John’s thrusts just firm and hard and deep enough... but a firm tug on his balls remind him quite startlingly of the reality of his situation. 

“You’re not allowed to come,” John reminds him firmly, without missing a beat, without missing a stroke. “This is just for me.”

What John doesn’t say - _you are all for me, your pleasure is irrelevant, you exist solely for my pleasure_ \- spins around inside of Sherlock’s head despite himself, and he has to reach down and hurt himself as well, just to keep from doing something he shouldn’t. He wants to come, wants to come badly, but not getting to do it brings on a satisfaction of its own. It reminds him that he’s owned, in a way that John rarely does in so many words. Perhaps they’re moving faster forward than he’d thought. 

As John keeps fucking him, Sherlock keeps intermittently pinching his balls and his cock, using the pain as a way to cope with the pleasure and the mental fulfillment he’s experiencing so completely. It really is as though being John’s toy is all he’s for, as though he’s been reduced to a living, breathing sex doll. When John comes inside him, it’s as though he’s completing his entire mission in life, and he has to hold on to himself tightly not to come, too. If this is to happen again in the future, they’re going to need to invest in a chastity device of some sort, he thinks distantly, as John gently strokes along his sides. Preferably a cage. Preferably something that’ll hurt if he grows hard inside of it.

John kisses the back of his neck, too, and for a moment, all is pleasant and caring again, like it was before, when John was preparing him. The contrasts appeal greatly to Sherlock, how, even when John is objectifying him to some extent, he still takes care to take care. How John, even when he’s being unpredictable, is entirely his stable and reliable self. Moments later, he’s pulling out, and getting to his feet. 

“Well,” he says, as though he’s only just realising what they’ve done, “that was nice.”

Sherlock dares a look, up at John, as he passes by to dispose of the condom in the kitchen trash. He’s wet too, his knees and shins glistening. The puddle is turning cold, and without John and the sex to distract him, it’s starting to feel unpleasant. Sherlock is still hard, but it’s that much easier to not let it bother him now. He’s owned, and that makes him aroused; things are as they should be. By the bin, John gives Sherlock a gentle smile, and says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take a shower.”

In the end, they shower together. John is as attentive as always, helping Sherlock out of his wet clothes, running soothing hands over his body as he lathers him up. He even washes Sherlock’s hair for him, something that has Sherlock purring like a kitten. The scene was particularly intense, as far as he was concerned, and he doesn’t strictly feel like he needs all this after-care, but… Oh, if he doesn’t enjoy it regardless. 

Once they’re both clean and calm again, Sherlock is nappied. It’s a bit early in the evening for it, but that’s very much alright, as far as he’s concerned. The fabric feels good against his skin and it’s a comfort to know that, if he were to wet himself again, he wouldn’t have to make such a mess of it. He holds a brand new respect for the things now that knows just how much they can hold. 

He’s made to clean up his piss before bed, just like he suspected he would be.  
\-----  
It’s obviously not John’s job to clean up his more literal messes, even while he might take it on himself to clean up the more proverbial ones. When it comes to making excuses on Sherlock’s account, there’s no one better for it than John. 

Being in an entirely different state of mind than when he made the puddle on the floor, Sherlock doesn’t mind taking care of it one bit. It’s actually nice, in a way, getting to set things straight with the world, after John has gotten to set him straight. It’s a rare thing, for Sherlock to be able to work at anything peacefully, and he revels in the opportunity. There’s no need to work himself into a frenzy in order to get results, and there’s no way he can abandon it halfway through either, with John’s watching eyes, so it’s safe to take it at an enjoyable pace. 

By the time they crawl into bed together, his knees are pink, and he’s starting to feel vaguely disappointed that his brilliant plan didn’t work. It did do some good, though; he’d definitely stirred something inside of John that John hasn’t let him touch before. They’re moving forward, it would seem, into something even more glorious than what they already have. He feels content as John wraps an arm around him and falls asleep on the spot, so obviously satisfied. Soon, Sherlock does too. 

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s wet himself without waking up again. While still rare enough, it’s starting to happen more and more often. The wetness isn’t why he’s suddenly awake, though; rather, the way John’s hand is stroking the front of his nappy is. With a sleepy hum, he turns to look over his shoulder, seeing a look in John’s eye that puts a big smirk on his face. Ah.

“May I come today, Sir?” he mumbles sleepily, knowing the answer even before John says it. 

“Of course.”

Sherlock’s smile widens as he rolls over and into John’s arms more fully. He hadn’t been entirely off last night, then; John had been waiting for him to lose control. To lose control properly, though. He should’ve known that John wasn’t interested in anything halfway, or anything fake, not when they could so easily make the real thing together. John’s hand slides into Sherlock’s nappy, and he responds by kissing his throat, whispering in his ear, “I want you to use me more often.”

There’s a smile in John voice as he replies, softly, “I don’t see why not, then.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.

Sherlock can tell from the moment that John steps in through the door that he’s got something out of the ordinary in mind. They’ve been separated for a while, pursuing different lines of the same case. Sherlock had put everything together neatly just hours before, while John was back at work, and it feels to him as though this is the first time they really see each other all week. Why John has to ruin it with a head buzzing full of thoughts, he has no idea, and frankly, he doesn’t want to know, either. Not at first. The post-case high is enough to make him relax sufficiently on its own, and, lying back on the sofa, he does what he can to bask in it. Even though he adores needing John for some things, it can be heaven not to. 

For the time being, John ducks off into the kitchen, and for four entire seconds Sherlock manages to contain his mind in himself. It’s glorious, to achieve a kind of mental stillness he normally needs a dominant to find… but then, his natural curiosity takes over and he peers an eye open. John’s seemingly staring into the fridge, perhaps calculating what he could make for dinner. Only, not even John could possibly need so much thought for that. Sherlock can practically feel the buzz of his mind clear across the room, and he rubs at his temples, trying to ignore it. 

It’s fighting a losing battle. 

When John turns away from the fridge to face him briefly, Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and John looks rather caught. Ah. Not dinner, then - which means that there’s no telling what it is. Could be dangerous, certainly. Suddenly, it’s less annoying, and more intriguing. Not something that can be compared to a case, of course, but not far off, either. An investigation is the most logical next step. 

“Well?” Sherlock urges, and John clears his throat. That can’t be a good sign, so Sherlock does a quick once-over, reading him, quickly filtering for something relevant, something new. He comes up blank; there’s nothing specific to be found. Just clues, that don’t seem to add up to anything just yet. Sherlock sits up straighter as John walks over and sits down beside him, perking up. For reasons he can’t see, Sherlock is reminded of the first time John had nappied him, when they sat just here, just like this. Something inside Sherlock warms up.

“Well,” John starts, as he often does when he doesn’t seem to know quite where he’ll end up, “you enjoy subbing for me, don’t you?” 

Something about the phrasing bothers Sherlock, but he still nods, because he does enjoy this, what they have. Surely subbing isn’t all it is, though. Surely there’s more to it. As though to reassure him that indeed, yes, John takes his wrist and holds it gently, kindly…. yet still tightly enough to hold him in place. When he speaks up next, his voice has taken on its familiar hardness.

“Why don’t you prove it to me?” 

Sherlock hesitates. His first impulse is to go for John’s cock, to bend over and nuzzle at his clothed crotch to show just how much he adores pleasing him, but he keeps himself from doing so. He has no idea what John wants from him just now, after all. Perhaps he isn’t interested in sex as such at all; perhaps all he wants is a back rub, or for Sherlock to fetch the nappy kit so they can have a lazy afternoon at home. So, on second thought, Sherlock slides down onto his knees instead, ever graceful, shifting so that he’s by John’s feet. 

“How do you want me to do that, Sir?” Sherlock asks. John seems to consider him and shifts, as though he’s growing hard. Quite by reflex, so does Sherlock. 

“Be a footstool for me,” John orders, and Sherlock does as he’s told, getting down on his hands and knees without a second’s hesitation. This is new territory indeed, and Sherlock’s got the feeling that it’s going to lead them somewhere. He doesn’t quite know where they might end up, but he knows that John’s guiding him, that he’ll keep his feet on the right path even if he relaxes his grip, so he does, relenting control. He watches as John steps out of his shoes, toes off his socks, and puts his naked feet up on Sherlock’s back. Somewhere above him, the telly switches on.

It’s nicer, Sherlock is quick to realise, to be put in a submissive position when he was feeling well to begin with. There’s less of a contrast, less of a struggle for him to switch mindsets, easier for him to sink deeper. He doesn’t need much at all to be able to close his eyes and relax utterly, safe with the weight of his master on his back. He revels in it, in feeling safe and comfortable. It’s a bit like meditation, he realises, only far, far better.

A forty-five minute programme seems to pass in the blink of an eye, and Sherlock is only made aware that it’s time to move when John does. 

He looks up at his master, almost sleepily, as though he’s just waking from a good nap. He blinks. John smiles, quite obviously proud, in a way that warms Sherlock down to his core. He’s being a good boy; he can tell. As John speaks, he moves back into his original position, on his knees in front of him. He wants to rest his head on John’s lap, but doesn’t, not when he hears John say, “What other furniture would you like to be?”

John knows that, though, because Sherlock has told him before. Not in so many words, of course, but in bits and pieces, in hints, in dirty talk and in their conversations about what they’d like for, and from, each other. 

“End table,” Sherlock says as such, eyes fixed somewhere around John’s knees. John doesn’t ask him to look up. “Chair… Toilet.” 

John stops him there, reaching out for his head, grabbing his hair and pulling it back, so that they’re facing one another fully. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine; oh, there’s so much beautiful intent in John’s eyes. 

“A table?” he asks, as though that was by far the more interesting option, and Sherlock is all but having flashbacks to every other time he’s been denied. It’s starting to become routine now, too, and Sherlock loves the way it makes him feel when John denies him what he wants. When John denies him everything that he wants. He feels deliciously helpless as he nods, but John smiles. 

“Well then,” he concludes, “a table it is. Wait here.”

Again, Sherlock does as he’s told, without much reflecting on why John is leaving or where he’s going. The last time he up and left unannounced and without explanation, it ended with John’s cock in his arse, and he isn’t going to argue with that track record. Instead, he settles himself down on all fours again, closer to the sofa this time, so that John will be able to reach him.

This time, John isn’t carrying something quite as exciting as lube when he returns, and he’s still wearing his trousers. Trying not to look up from his position, Sherlock can only see his feet once more, and the bottom of his trouser legs. He’s starting to feel a bit like this is always the level he’s one, like a dog, or a small child. Just him and his Master’s feet, to be worshipped at and sought out for comfort… It’s a nice thought that Sherlock files away for later. 

As a contrast to that, when John sits down, he pulls up Sherlock’s shirt to expose his back and puts down something very, very cold on it. Sherlock tenses up, which is lucky in a way, because if he hadn’t, he’s sure that he would’ve shivered, and upturned whatever it is that might be on his back. It feels like ice, but surely, it can’t be. John might not be the kindest of Sirs these days, but he wouldn’t be so cruel, not without a point. He hears John settle down, hears him put his feet up, hears him open a book. They might be here for a while, then.

Even though he’s settled down, the cold keeps Sherlock from sinking into the comfortable place he’d been before. Every time he starts to drift off, John will lift the object, take a sip, and put it back down in another place, somewhere that hasn’t been desensitized to the cold. The feeling always makes him start back into reality, and reality is a place where his knees are starting to hurt. It doesn’t take Sherlock long to figure out that it’s a glass of something or other he has on his back - possibly ice water - but the knowledge doesn’t help any. He still hurts, and it’s a little bit miserable, doing this task. The fact that being miserable in this fashion makes him hard barely even registers, though, because he’s doing this for John, and for John, he’ll pull through. Not because his body seems to be enjoying the pain, too; that’s just a bonus.

Even though he’s sure, rationally, that John couldn’t possibly drag this out for as long as forty-five minutes, it feels to Sherlock as if John’s reading session takes twice as long as the time he just spent by the telly. Both are enjoyable, he’ll admit as much, but in very different ways. That was easy; this is taking its toll. This is challenging. Here, he gets to prove that he’s good for things, even if he isn’t the direct beneficiary of them. None the less, he can’t help that he’s beyond thrilled when the time comes that John takes his glass and gets up again, leaving Sherlock where he is, once more without a word of explanation. It’ll come, though; he’s sure it’ll come.

It doesn’t. John comes back, but he still doesn’t say anything. A couple of moments pass, with John standing by Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock doing his best to not be too obvious in looking at his feet. He’s supposed to be a table, after all, and tables neither move nor speak nor feel curious. Tables simply are, for their owner’s pleasure, however long the owner decides to drag that out for. His erection doesn’t go away as he repeats that mantra to himself, but when he hears John unzip, his cock twitches, and arousal seems to be coming from everywhere at once. Is this finally it? Is he finally, finally going to get what he wants?

“Sherlock,” John says, and taking that as permission to break character, the submissive looks up over his shoulder. John looks exactly the way Sherlock had imagined he would; casual and relaxed, with his cock out in one hand. He looks as though he’s about to take a piss. Without having to be asked - without being patient enough to wait for the order - Sherlock scrambles up until he’s sitting on his feet, back straight, eyes all but begging John to go ahead. They make eye contact, and Sherlock can’t believe how calm John is being about this whole thing, when Sherlock’s own cock aches in his trousers. 

“Open your mouth, then, and hold still,” John says, and Sherlock goes absolutely weak in the knees as he does what he’s told. This has to be it, can’t possibly be anything else, and Sherlock is torn between closing his eyes to protect them from urine, and keeping them open, so that he can not only feel but also see John using him. In the end, John makes up his mind for him, telling him, “Eyes closed.” 

Again, Sherlock obeys swiftly, sitting there, knees on the floor, hands on his knees, eyes closed and mouth open. He waits. The seconds drag on, and then…

The first thing he’s aware of is something warm hitting him squarely in the chest, soaking through his cotton shirt, running down his stomach, soaking into the fabric. The smell comes a moment later, and as Sherlock realises that this is actually, truly happening, he can’t hold back a moan. John’s pissing on him. John is really, truly, pissing on him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he wants to make as good an impression as he possibly can, he’d be reaching to touch himself. He doesn’t, though, and he’s proud that he can keep himself from indulging. This is about indulging John, after all, and that is another matter entirely.

The steady stream travels up Sherlock’s body, up over his neck, his chin, his cheek, his forehead. The way John is avoiding his mouth is annoying, but being covered in John’s piss more than makes up for it. It’s as though the Dom is marking his territory, claiming Sherlock for his very own, scaring off any and all contestants… And then there it is, suddenly, the taste of it. It brings another moan from Sherlock as he struggles to swallow, but the pressure is too much, and most of it comes running back out, down his chin and further on down his body. He’s making an absolute mess of himself - John is making an absolute mess of him - and he hasn’t been happier in days. 

It stops just as abruptly as it begun, with John’s stream lessening, dripping the last bit of urine down into Sherlock’s lap, onto his straining cock, his thighs and his hands. Even then, Sherlock doesn’t quite dare open his eyes. John told him not to, so that means that he won’t. Not even now. Not even when it’s moments after the fact, and he wants to reach out to his Master and thank him, wants to suck John’s cock, wants to kiss John’s feet, wants to do anything to show him how very happy this made him. He feels as though the big grin he’s got on his face doesn’t convey the message strongly enough, but apparently, John disagrees. 

A gentle hand come up to pet his hair, at the back of his head, where it’s still dry, and John says affectionately, “You can open your eyes again, Sherlock,” as though he had expected Sherlock to make that decision on his own before now. As though he expects Sherlock to be able to make any decisions on his own right now. When Sherlock obeys, John looks just the way he did before, except his cock has been tucked away - and it’s hard in his jeans, Sherlock can tell, but he doesn’t let on. If John isn’t in the mood to fuck, then they won’t. He’s only happy that he’s getting the petting session of his life, right now, and his eyes slip closed again rather against his will. He can positively hear John smile. 

“You really do want this,” he observes, and Sherlock nods. Of course he does. He’s told John, over and over, and John ought to know by now that Sherlock never does anything he doesn’t want to, talking included. 

“Of course,” he says, starting to find bits and pieces of himself again. “I wouldn’t lie to you, John.”

The man above him seems to consider this for a bit, and Sherlock is glad, because the silence allows him some more time to put the fragments of himself together. If he felt good because of the case, he feels even better now… Except, he realises, John’s head is still buzzing with thought. Whatever started this isn’t over. Once more, he opens his eyes, this time analyzing the look he catches on John’s face. There’s surprise there, surprise and something else. Is John impressed with him? For this? He frowns.

“John,” he says, voice having lost most of its submissive tone now, “you do realise that I really do want this kind of thing, don’t you?” 

Even though John is quick to say, “yes, of course”, the look on his face gives him away. Sherlock’s brow furrows further. This has been concerning John? And he hasn’t said anything? That hurts in a way that nothing ought to hurt right now, when he’s still soaked in John’s warm piss.

“I adore being your filthy piss whore just as much as I enjoy being your nappied baby,” he tells John, carefully watching his face. “I don’t know what I’ve done to give you any other idea. If this is to do with some ex who talked big but didn’t back it up, then I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to suffer for it any longer. I want you to use me, John, and to humiliate me, and show me off to others, and hurt me, and torture me. _Please_.”

When he stops speaking, he can see quite clearly that he’s made an impression. John blinks at him, and, as always, it takes some time for him to process all the implications of what Sherlock had to say. Once he has, though, the buzzing fades away, slowly. Mission accomplished, Sherlock thinks to himself, as John nods. 

“Right,” the man says, clearing his throat, and then, “Good. Glad we got that settled. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

John doesn’t tell him why he’d hesitated with this, not in the shower, when John washes him off just as lovingly as always, nor afterwards, when they part ways once more - Sherlock to dress, and John to clean up what little of his pee had leaked down onto the floor. It doesn’t much matter, though, Sherlock is sure, because when he and John sit together on the sofa later that night, there’s no tension between them. John seems more relaxed than he has been in weeks, as though Sherlock had gone and resolved some great issue for him. As though something or other has become loosened inside him. The programme is about as tedious as can be expected, but Sherlock accepts it nonetheless. He senses that John would like him there, by his side, so he stays. For once, the doing nothing doesn’t make his skin crawl, and he supposes that’s as good a reason as any to stay put. Their evening won’t stay dull forever, he’s sure. It has to take an interesting turn at some point. 

As it turns out, that point arrives much quicker than Sherlock had thought it would. They’re ten minutes into the news, some report or other on football being made, when John shifts and pulls something out from underneath the sofa pillow he’d been sitting on. For a moment, Sherlock can’t do anything but stare at the object in John’s hands. He can see clear as day that it’s a collar, but it takes a second before everything else catches up, and the pieces fall into place. _It’s a collar. It’s John’s collar._ His heart all but stops in his chest as John turns towards him, the piece of leather still in his hands. 

“I think it’s about time I gave you this,” he says, and Sherlock takes it from him with something like reverence in his eyes. He thought that John found this kind of thing ridiculous, that John prefers the nappies, or, indeed, nothing at all, to make Sherlock feel owned and kept. To know that he was wrong is… Well. It is the way it always is to be wrong to John, these days. It’s quite simply lovely.

“May I please put it on?” Sherlock wants to know, and John nods, so he does. It isn’t a particularly special collar at all; black leather with faux golden details and no lining to speak of, but it smells nice, and it feels nice around his neck, too. In fact, nice is an understatement. It feels as though he’s got a lifesaver to cling to in the stormy ocean of life. It feels as though he’s got something to weigh him down to earth, so that he doesn’t float off into space, leaving his life behind, and he’s so very grateful to John for taking this step.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and when he releases it, he feels utterly at peace. He’s glad that they waited with this, he realises, because it wouldn’t have held the same significance, had John given it to him the first thing he did, before Sherlock knew whether he could trust him. Before Sherlock knew just how amazing John is. As things stand now, he closes his eyes, and he feels as though he could simply sit there, on that sofa, and focus on being owned for the rest of the evening, without issue. It’s a lovely way to feel. 

Naturally, the feeling doesn’t last anywhere near as long as he’d thought. A couple of minutes later, his eyes flutter open, and he feels… Something. It takes a moment before he can put a name on the feeling, before he can classify it, and another to act on it. He wants to give back, wants to show John how good this feels and how happy it’s made him. He wants to make John equally pleased with him in turn, equally happy. This time, he doesn’t hold back the impulse to bend down and mouth at John’s crotch. Sherlock feels him tense up, at first, but he’s quick to relax, allowing Sherlock to take his cock out. By the time John’s cock is in his mouth, one of John’s hands is in his hair, too, stroking and pulling, and Sherlock honestly feels as though his life can’t get any better.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use this as a how-to-bdsm guide. Both our boys can be pretty reckless. It's only meant to be fun, sexy and kinky. WIP. Chapter length can vary.

It’s a rare day when they can just longue together on the sofa like this, but today happens to be one of them. It seems as though everything has aligned in their favour. Mrs Hudson has left to spend a week with ‘a dear old friend’ - conveniently forgetting to mention that said friend was a man she’s been having an on and off relationship with over the past ten or so years - by the coast, so they’ve the place to themselves, just for one. For another, the pressing warmth that has been holding London in an iron grip has finally let up somewhat, leaving them once more able to breathe.

Still, the windows are open, and they aren’t wearing much; John is in his pants; Sherlock in his nappy and his collar. The buzzing from the fan in the corner and the noise from the street below are the only sounds in all of 221 Baker Street, aside from John occasionally turning the page in the paper. From where Sherlock has his head, resting on John’s thigh, he can read just enough of the various articles to make a challenge out of filling in the blanks for himself. It’s entertaining enough to justify the peace they’re sharing, and it pleases him. For a long while, that’s all he needs, but eventually, he stops bothering and just lets his mind wander. There’s plenty that’s happened recently to keep him occupied, and the collar he wears weighs him down enough that he feels safe to let himself drift off. 

“John,” he murmurs eventually, to try and get his Dom’s attention. He gets a soft hum in response.

“The things you did to me… Were they all tests?”

It’s a question that’s been nagging him for some time now, and while he isn’t too sure that he’s going to like the answer either way, he needs to know. If it weren’t tests, then the rest of their life together will be more of the same; more of careful, more of caring. While it’s lovely, there’s more that Sherlock needs. If it were tests, though… What if he hadn’t passed them? It’s a train of thought he doesn’t need to follow as John interrupts it, saying simply, “Yes.”

This makes Sherlock pause. John had purposefully set up this for him, then, as a sort of game. A game to play, with a very real reward on the other side. And Sherlock had won it. This idea, irrationally, fills him with pride. He knows that he’s been manipulated and he knows that he ought to feel insulted or violated, but… He doesn’t. John hadn’t done anything to him that he didn’t want done - had even held back, in some cases - and it had all been done rather safely. Rather gently. And, most importantly, Sherlock had won. He’d played all of John’s games, and he’d won them. Probably, upon reflection, in no small part because John had been such a patient game master.

He smiles as he turns his head, kissing John’s flaccid penis through his boxers, just to show his gratitude. His excitement. When he glances upwards, he can see that John is smiling, too. Sherlock turns his entire body at that, leaving him on his stomach rather than his back. He keeps mouthing at John’s cock even though it strains his neck, kissing and licking at it through the fabric as it slowly grows hard. All manner of filthy thoughts are going through his head by the time John grabs the back of his collar and simply lifts him off with it, depositing him a foot or so down his thigh. 

“Not now,” he tells Sherlock firmly, returning to his newspaper, and another round of warmth soars through Sherlock’s body. He can’t explain what it is about being taken for granted and told off that makes him feel that way; it just does. Possibly it has to do with knowing that this is only a game, and that really, John needs him more than anything else in the whole world. That thought warms him, too, as does John’s hand, which takes up petting his hair. Perhaps Sherlock had miscalculated; perhaps John doesn’t actually mean for anything to change between them. Perhaps gentle and loving really is the way to go… Not that he minds much, at the moment.

He manages to keep his peace for all of two minutes, and then; “What do we do now?”

John finishes the sentence he’s reading before he turns his eyes down onto Sherlock, giving him a long, calm look, as though he’s waiting for Sherlock to figure it out on his own. Sherlock doesn’t; doesn’t even try. Outsmarting his Doms is something he’s had to stop doing, by and large, because it’s never ended well for him. 

“I showed you,” John tells him. “Remember?”

And Sherlock does, once John has reminded him. Remembers the videos. The piss drinking, the gang bangs, the threesomes with the submissive with his eyes forced closed and his mouth forced open, the violence, the filth… A pleased shiver runs down his spine.

“Yes,” he says, “yes, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! I hope you guys enjoyed it :)


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